


The Gameplan

by bellagerantalii



Series: The Gameplan Series [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Homophobia, M/M, POV Jack, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-06 00:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10320923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellagerantalii/pseuds/bellagerantalii
Summary: They always talk about the consequences of Jack coming out, but really, Bitty has more to lose.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is going to be three chapters posted over three weeks. I started off wanting to write something about Bitty coming out to his parents, and it just kind of evolved into a long-ass fluffy domestic fic with some angst. There's a happy ending in there, I promise!
> 
> Special thanks to BeccaBee for being the world's best beta!!

They have a plan. Jack likes plans. Plans are good, especially for something important. 

The plan goes something like this:

….

 

….

Actually, they don’t have a plan. Yet.

….

It’s December of Bitty’s senior year, and Jack has lured him down to Providence for the weekend. Well, maybe not lured. Jack rarely has to lure Bitty anywhere. Bitty almost always comes down on those precious few weekends where their schedules align. Bitty cooks, and Jack makes sure he gets some of his homework done free from the distractions of the Haus. Of course they do… other things, but that’s really not anyone’s business. 

This weekend, though, marks the end of Bitty’s finals, and he’s staying with Jack for an entire week before he heads back to Georgia. Jack has one away game, but luckily enough it’s an afternoon game against the Bruins. He comes home the first Saturday of Bitty’s stay to an apartment that smells like pot roast and gingerbread. He still has two home games that week, but Bitty comes to both and sits in the wives and girlfriends section of the arena, chatting happily with Marty and Thirdy’s wives and somehow managing to keep at least three children attached to him at all times.

It’s better than Jack could ever have hoped for, even if they can’t come out to the broader world yet. Bitty isn’t even out to his parents, and Jack refuses to do anything while Bits is still in college. If Jack’s honest with himself, he may also want to get a cup under his belt, too.

In the meantime, Jack’s perfectly happy to chop vegetables while Bits talks about his finals, about baking Christmas cookies with his mama, about how Dex has fixed nearly every single appliance in the Haus, and about Beyonce’s upcoming tour.

“Are you excited for your last semester at Samwell?” Jack asks, pushing the cutting board full of vegetables in Bits’ direction.

“I still have so much to do! I have to make sure Dex and Nursey don’t tear the Haus apart, Chowder still has to be taught how to feed frogs, and I have _still_ not succeeded in torching that disgusting couch, if you can believe it. With all of that, I don’t know where I’m going to find the time to write my thesis,” Bittle replies, smiling up at Jack and anticipating the inevitable chirps about his procrastination. 

Jack chuckles. “Think you’ll have time to apply for jobs with all of that?”

Bittle looks stricken.

“Have you even thought about it?” Jack asks, but he smiles while he does it, because _he knows_ Bittle has, even if he’s actively avoiding filling out applications.

“Yes! I mean… I don’t know what I’m going to do with an American Studies degree, so I don’t even know where to _begin_.”

Jack leans back against the counter as Bits adds the vegetables to the pot of low-fat chicken stock he’s been working on. 

“Have you thought about where you’d want to be, city or state wise?”

Bits looks up, and blushes.

“Well I… I don’t think I want to go back to Georgia, but… What are you asking me, Mr. Zimmerman?”

“I’m asking if you were considering Providence. I’m asking if you… Do you want to move in with me?”

Bitty’s face lights up. He makes the high-pitched sound that means he’s thrilled and then he leaps into Jack’s arms.

“I take it that’s a yes, then?” 

“ _Yes_ , of course it is,” Bitty exclaims. Jack takes this opportunity to lift Bitty up, set him on the counter, and kiss him thoroughly.

Later that night, though, after soup and some particularly exuberant sex, Bitty jolts awake in bed, and shakes Jack awake just as he’s falling asleep.

“Sweetheart?” Bitty whispers.

“Hmm?”

“How would it…Are you sure you want me to move in with you? I mean someone’s bound to figure it out eventually, and-“

“Bits, do you want to live with me?”

“Well, yes, Jack, of course I do, but you still have to think about—“

“The building has great security, and now that I’ve spent a year in the NHL incident-free, I don’t have as many reporters following me,” Jack says, pulling Bitty down so that he’s lying on Jack’s stomach. “Everyone on the team knows, and even if one of them wanted to blab, they’re too afraid of losing access to your pies.”

“That may be, but when people find out—“

“I want to come out. I don’t want to hide for my entire career.”

There’s just enough light filtering in through the curtains for Jack to make out Bittle’s face, and he sees a sad smile spread across it.

“Jack, I’m—I’m so proud of you, and if you want to come out, that’s great.”

“If you don’t, I mean, I can wait. It’s not like I was planning to make an announcement tomorrow or anything, and I thought, since you’re out as well… I don’t want to have to hide you.”

“I’m only out at Samwell, Jack.”

Oh. 

“Are you worried about your parents?” Jack asks, running his hands up and down Bittle’s arms. Jack’s met the Bittles and he knows they love their son. He also knows that they assume many things about their son.

Bitty draws in a breath, but doesn’t respond right away, so Jack keeps his hold on him.

“It’s just… It’s one thing if your only son comes out as gay. It’s a whole ‘nother ball game when he comes out with his NHL all-star boyfriend. They’ll get people hammering on their door, and Madison’ll be overrun with reporters asking about me, which no one will appreciate.”

“You think the media will overwhelm them?”

“Not just that. If you… If I came out to them without a famous boyfriend, or any boyfriend at all, it’d be easier. I don’t think they would disown me or anything, but it would give them the option to not talk about me with most of the town.”

“That sounds a lot like disowning to me,” Jack says, almost in spite of himself. He hates the idea that Bitty’s parents’ love for him is in any way conditional.

“It’s complicated,” Bitty sighs. 

“I’m sorry, Bits.”

“Hush. It’s not your fault, it’s just—“

“Complicated?”

“Yeah.”

They lay there in silence for a few more minutes, Bitty splayed out over Jack’s chest. Jack finally stills his hands so they rest on Bitty’s back, and for a few minutes he thinks about how much he wants this every night. Bitty falling asleep next to him, sharing a bed, sharing a space. It’s intoxicating, but if Bitty’s not ready, well…

“We should do whatever you’re comfortable with,” Jack finally gets out. “We can look at you moving in some other time.”

Bitty jerks his head up.

“I want to move in with you, Jack. I want to so, so badly. I just don’t see how we could keep it all under wraps.”

“I think we can figure it out. Can we at least try?”

“… Yes. Let’s try.”

Bittle beams. Jack beams. They fall asleep wrapped up in each other’s arms.

...

“So, when is Bitty moving to Providence?” 

Jack nearly jumps. He’s standing in the Sur la Table in the Providence Place Mall, looking at the shelves of Le Creuset bakeware in front of him when a familiar voice breaks his concentration.

He turns around to see George standing behind him, a knowing smile on her face.

“May, actually,” Jack says, lifting the visor of his cap a little and blushing.

“And when’s the wedding?” George asks.

Jack blushes even deeper.

“Well I mean, I haven’t… We haven’t really talked about _that_ yet.”

“Jack Zimmermann, I have met that boy, and if you’re planning on getting him a complete Le Creuset set like I think you are, you might as well get him a diamond ring.”

Jack chuckles. “Just a Dutch oven and some pie dishes. His birthday and graduation are both in May, and since we have a by this week, I wanted to get it done.”

“Very smart. Cerise or Marseilles?”

“Uhhh...”

“Samwell red or Falconers blue?”

“The red,” Jack says, smiling. 

“Good choice,” George replies, smiling at Jack a little indulgently. 

“You know, Jack,” she continues, dropping her voice. There’s hardly anyone else here in the store, but her eyes still dart around. “We’re behind you and Bittle 100%, however you two decide you want to do this. But before Bittle moves in we should talk. We want to be ready for anything, and if you guys decide you do want to go public, Falconers PR can handle it.”

“That’s really nice of you, George, but Bittle and I wouldn’t want to bother them-“

“We are paying our PR people salaries that almost measure up to yours to be bothered with things like this. We’ve got your back. Talk to Eric, and then come and talk to me,” she says and Jack knows that tone. Even if he tried arguing, he isn’t going to get anywhere. 

“Thank you, George. I’ll make sure to talk to Bits about it.”

“Good. Now I’ll let you get back to your shopping, but just so you know, I happen to have excellent taste in jewelry, too, if you ever need some advice.” 

...

“So I ran into George today at Providence Place. She asked when you were moving in.”

Jack and Bitty are having their daily bedtime skype call. Well, bedtime for Jack. Bitty will probably be up for another few hours at least in order to meet the deadline for his thesis draft. 

Bitty laughs. “Did she? Where did you run into her?”

“At Providence Place.”

“Yes, Jack, but where in Providence Place? George doesn’t seem like the type to spend her by week hanging around with mallrats like you.”

“In the shoe store. I needed a new pair of running shoes.”

“Jack Zimmermann, I thought I told you to tell me when you needed a new pair!”

“But they were having a sale.”

“Oh lord. What did you get?”

“Hang on a minute, let me go get them.”

Jack disappears from the camera’s view for a moment, and reappears with a plastic bag from Champs. He pulls out the shoebox on top, opens it and reveals…

“Jack Zimmermann, you did not buy another pair of yellow running shoes.”

“No. I bought two pairs.”

Jack enjoys the frustrated sound Bitty makes a little too much.

“Anyway, I ran into George, and she wants to talk to us before you move in.”

“Oh?” Bitty replies, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, uh, she said that we can take our time going public, but she wanted us to know that the Falconers organization is behind us. And that the PR people can take care of any press stuff so that we don’t have to.”

“Well that was nice of her.”

Jack frowns. Bittle is decidedly unenthused. 

“This doesn’t mean we have to tell anyone right away, or even soon. But if we’re going to be living together, it’s going to be a lot harder to hide.”

“I know,” Bitty sighs, leaning forward and rubbing his face with his palms. “I was just talking to Mama and Coach earlier and I just don’t know how I’m going to tell them that I’m staying in New England and becoming your “roommate,” let alone everything else.”

“Everything else being that you’re gay, we’ve been dating for over a year, we’re in love, and we’re moving in together as not roommates?”

“Something like that,” Bitty replies, smiling sadly. “It’s just going to be a lot for them to take. 

“Do you think they already know?”

 

“Oh no, not at all. Well, Mama may _suspect_ , but she’s probably purposefully just not putting the pieces together.”

“Ah,” Jack says. He knows Suzanne Bittle loves her son, but he’s also learning not to underestimate a southerner’s ability to deny what’s right in front of them. 

“I mean, she may know, but she doesn’t _know_. And neither she or coach will _know_ until _I_ tell them, or they get told.”

“So it’s probably better if you tell them.”

“And I know I should, because I can’t hide who I am forever and if we get outed or someone else in Madison tells them before I do, it’ll be even worse. And that definitely wouldn’t be fair to them, and I will tell them, I just don’t know how.”

“Whatever you decide, Bitts, I’ll support you. Just let me know what you need.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Tell uh, tell George I’d love to meet with her next time we’re all in Providence.”

...

“Do you think I made enough?” Bitty asks, looking down at the basket of oatmeal raisin scones in his hands. He and Jack are driving over to the other side of Providence to George’s house for “a nice brunch and some business talk.”

Jack eyes the massive basket in Bitty’s lap.

“Bits, you’ve been up since five and made four batches.”

“But George told me last time that these were her favorite.”

“George’ll eat plenty, keep half for later, and I’ll still have enough to leave in the nook tomorrow.”

“I should have made a pie.”

“The scones’ll be perfect. You can make a pie next time, Bits.”

“You think there’ll be a next time?”

“You’re still planning on moving down here in May, right?”

“Yes?”

“Bittle, George likes you for more than just your scones.”

Bitty chuckles. “If you say so, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack pulls the car into a parking lot beside George’s building, which looks like it used to be an old warehouse. It’s red brick and looks cozy, but once George buzzes them in through the front door, Jack isn’t surprised to find that the interior is completely renovated, with sleek stainless steel and other touches that people probably call “industrial.” 

“The red brick really warms the place up, despite all that metal,” Bittle says, pressing the “up” button to call the elevator.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jack replies, putting his hand over Bitty’s and leading him into the elevator when the doors open. When the doors close, he pulls Bitty in for a quick, light kiss, and pulls back to see Bittle’s eyes lidded and a faint blush on his cheeks.

“Oh don’t you dare. I will not have you flustering me right before I need to make a good impression.”

“Which is why I didn’t push you up against the wall,” Jack replies. 

“If you had done anything to make me drop these scones, Jack, then you would have found yourself sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Jack is saved from replying by the “ding” of the elevator arriving at George’s floor. He and Bitty step out, make a left, and walk until they reach unit 45. As Jack knocks on the door, Bittle lets out a deep breath.

The door opens a moment later, and George is standing there, wearing an apron, and smiling at the two of them.

“Right on time! Come on in, you two,” she says, stepping aside so that Jack and Bitty can cross the threshold. 

“The casserole I made is just out of the oven, and the table’s all set, so now all we need is your delicious scones, Eric,” she says, closing the door behind them. 

“Thanks for inviting us over, George,” Bittle says, “Should I just set the scones—?”

“Yeah right in the center of the table, thanks,” George replies, and Bittle sets the basket near the center of the round table, next to a hot casserole dish and a huge bowl of fruit salad.

“You can just hang your coats in the closet by the door. Can I get you guys anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Juice.”

“Some coffee would be great, thanks, George,” Jack says, hanging his own coat up in the closet while Bittle peels off his many layers. 

“What’ll you have, Eric?”

“Coffee sounds great,” Bitty replies, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck, shivering slightly as he does. 

“You like cream and two sugars, right?”

“Bittle prefers his coffee to be fake-pumpkin flavored,” Jack chirps. Bitty rolls his eyes and George chuckles.

“Cream and two sugars is perfect, thanks, George,” Bittle says, gratefully accepting a steaming mug from George. She hands Jack a mug of nearly black coffee, and pours a cup for herself, pouring in as much cream as she put in Bittle’s.

Once they’re all seated, George serves each of them heaping portions of her breakfast casserole. (“What Nate doesn’t know won’t hurt him. You’d better eat all of this or I’ll be a little offended.”) They chat for a few minutes, but there’s a bit of an awkwardness that Jack isn’t used to having when Bittle’s around. Bits is smiling, but he’s quieter than usual, and his hands are shaking ever so slightly.

Luckily, George notices, too.

“So, how about we get down to business so we can actually enjoy all this?” she asks, resting her fork on her plate and clasping her hands in front of her.

“Oh thank goodness. I thought you were gonna make me wait all morning,” Bittle says, his voice a little unsteady.

“Jack?”

“Yeah. Let’s talk,” Jack replies with what he hopes is an encouraging smile to Bittle and George. He must look funny, though, because Bittle’s mouth has turned into an actual sly smile, like he wants to chirp him, or maybe call Jack something like a “sweet summer child.” Jack can’t tell the difference sometimes.

“So first of all,” George begins “I’m glad that you’re moving to Providence, Eric. Not only will I have easier access to your sinful baked goods, but Jack always seems to score more when you come visit.”

“Probably just because his cellies get more energetic,” Eric says. It’s not a lie. Jack has more reasons to celebrate when his boyfriend’s in town, after all.

“Actually, his goals go up right before, during, and after you visit. On average he gets one more goal per game and two more assists.”

“You’ve actually counted?” Jack asks. Not that he doesn’t believe her, but still. 

“So I get insomnia sometimes. And I like to know what pushes my team to be at their best.”

Bittle chuckles. “Are you sure Jack’s goals don’t outweigh all the pie that’s been derailing the team’s meal plans?”

“They’re all grown men, most of the time. They can decide what they do or don’t eat. But anyway, I asked you guys here for a fact-finding brunch,” George takes a breath. 

“I’m not trying to pry, but I need to have as many facts as possible so we can figure out what direction to take this in. We all want the same thing here. We want to minimize any negative impact on you, Jack, and the team. I haven’t brought in our PR people yet, but when I do, they’ll want to be on top of the story. When the time comes, hopefully you and Jack will have control of what type of story this becomes. And when you do decide to go public, you will have the full support of the Falconers organization.”

“Oh, uh, thank you, that’s very kind of you.” Bittle replies. 

“As of right now, the team, the coach, and general management officially know about you two. Wives and girlfriends, our trainers, doctors, therapists, anyone close to the team probably unofficially knows. It doesn’t have to go further than that for now if you don’t want it to, but I’ll tell you right now, if you move to Providence, come to events with Jack, live with Jack, it’s going to be a lot harder to keep that under wraps.”

Bittle and Jack nod in agreement.

“Anyone working for or with the team who decides to try and sell the story will immediately find themselves on the receiving end of a lawsuit… and Tater’s fists, probably. I know that sounds harsh-“ she adds quickly, seeing the stricken look on Bitty and Jack’s faces “but as part of the contracts they signed, they agreed not to disclose information like this. No one wants to see someone profit by outing you two.”

“A lawsuit just sounds like a bit much,” Bittle says, taking a sip of his coffee.

“And hopefully it won’t come to that. We want you to come out on your terms, in your own time. And I hire good people. No one’s going to purposefully out you.”

“Thank you, George,” Jack says, because Bittle, for maybe the second time in his life, can’t seem to find the words he needs.

“Is this all okay with you, Eric?”

Bittle takes a deep breath before replying. 

“I guess so. It comes with the territory of dating a professional hockey player, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” says George, taking another sip of her coffee. “Now, can I ask you some questions so that we can enjoy our brunch?”

“Lay ‘em on me,” Bittle says.

“First, were you underage when you began seeing Jack?”

Both Jack and Eric blush and try to stammer out a response. 

“What? No I turned twenty a couple weeks before Jack’s graduation. That’s when we started dating,” Bittle finally gets out, sounding a bit indignant. Jack doesn’t blame him.

“So May 2015?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. Honestly that’s the worst of it—like I said, I don’t mean to pry, but that’s something we need to know if this ever gets leaked. I’m sorry if the wording seemed insensitive, but that’s what people will be asking.”

Eric exhales, and Jack realizes that he’d been holding his breath. He scoots to the edge of his chair so that he can move his hand to the base of Bittle’s spine, and rub a slow, calming circle there.

“Okay, question two. Who of your family and friends know?”

“Most of the Samwell team knows, and my parents know. I uh, don’t really have friends outside the Samwell team and the Falconers,” Jack replies, hoping that his answer has given Bittle enough time to collect himself.

“I’m out at Samwell, everyone there knows I’m gay,” Bittle says, his voice stronger than Jack was expecting. “And my twitter and vlog followers all know I’m gay, but they don’t know I’m dating Jack.”

“What about your family?” George asks.

“No one in Georgia knows,” Bittle says.

“Alright then. So my next question becomes, when do you see yourself coming out? What’s your ideal scenario?”

Bittle glances at Jack, who smiles and nods, hoping that this is enough encouragement. 

“I guess… I don’t want to spend my entire life hiding from my parents, but I definitely want to wait until after I graduate in May. And I want to tell them before Jack and I go public. It’s only fair to give them some warning, I think.”

“Absolutely. Do you have a timeline in your head at all? If you don’t that’s fine. This is a fact-finding meeting and we don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

“As long as it’s not during football season,” Bittle laughs. “My dad is a high school football coach. It’s probably not a good idea to come out during his season.”

“I was thinking playoffs or post-playoffs, depending on where we end up in the next few years,” Jack adds. “I think it’ll go over easier if we have some playoff wins or even a cup under our belts, plus it’ll give the team some time avoid the media if they want to.”

“I agree with Jack. And not to jinx us, but I think we have a definite chance at the playoffs this year, maybe even the Cup, barring any catastrophes. Especially if you prove to be Jack’s best incentive.” George says. 

“Bits, what do you think?” 

“Yeah. That seems like it would be the best time. Not this season, though.”

“Definitely not this season. We can take as long as you want, Bits,” Jack assures him. He doesn’t even look at George. She’ll just have to live with it.

Bittle smiles at him.

“Well, that’s all the questions I have. Once you two actually move in together I’ll set up a meeting with PR and they can get into more specifics. In the meantime, I want to tell you about a friend of mine in Boston who edits cookbooks.”

...

Jack takes Bittle home that night, but instead of chirping him into doing homework, he lets Bittle bake him a non-diet approved pie, which Jack eats with gusto. They have loud, exuberant sex, and in the morning Bittle talks about how he’s going to organize the kitchen in May while he makes Jack an egg white and spinach omelet.

Jack thinks about how this could be his every day very soon, and finds that he can’t stop smiling.

...

Jack leans back in his seat on the plane. He’s flying home from a three game West Coast roadie and the entire team is spread over a chartered jet, everyone getting ready to take a well-deserved nap. They’ve won all three games, and their next game isn’t until Sunday night, and today is Friday. There’s also only three weeks left in the season. Unless the Maple Leafs have a last-minute surge, the Falconers are basically guaranteed a playoff spot.

And tonight Bittle is taking the train down to Providence. His thesis is nearly finished and his last finals are still almost a month away. Jack is anticipating a nice, relaxing weekend, probably their last before they both get swept up with finals, graduation, and playoffs. 

Jack is just about to fall asleep when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Bittle: Can you skype rn? 

Me: Sure, let me get my computer up

Jack extracts his laptop from his bag, pulls down his tray table, and opens up skype, plugging his headphones in so that he doesn’t wake his sleeping teammates.

Bitty calls almost as soon as the green dot appears next to Jack’s icon.

“Hey, Bits, what’s up?” Jack asks. It could be anything. One time he called like this to cry about Beyonce’s pregnancy announcement.

“Sweetpea, I’m so sorry, but I can’t make it down tonight,” Bitty says, looking a little guilty, but also a little frantic. 

“Is everything okay?” Jack asks, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

“Oh yes, everything’s fine. I have an interview. It’s so last minute. They called this morning and the supervisor is going out of town for the next two weeks and so today is basically the only day everyone on the hiring committee can get together and—“

“Bits, that’s fantastic! Where’s the interview?”

“Downtown Boston. The Seaport? It’s that cookbook company George was telling me about. She sent my resume to her friend and apparently a link to my vlog and now they—“

“When’s the interview?” Jack asks, looking at his watch. It’s 11:45 am in Massachusetts. Jack can see the ironing board behind Bitty, his white dress shirt laid over it and one of his blazers hanging on the closet door. It takes Bitty about 45 minutes to get from the Haus to downtown Boston via commuter rail.

“Three pm. But I haven’t practiced at all and I don’t want to show up at the interview with a huge suitcase of my things on top of everything else,” Bitty’s been moving his things down to Providence little by little over the past month. “So I’ll just get up early tomorrow and take one of the first trains down. I should make it to your place just before you get out of practice.”

“Or you could just come to Providence from your interview. It’s not like you don’t have enough clothes here,” Jack says. And it’s true. Bitty has plenty of clothes at his (their) condo. So it’s not like Jack’s being selfish. He’s just being practical.

“But what about my stuff I was planning on moving?”

“I’ll drive up sometime this week and get it. It’ll give me something to do so I’m not thinking about playoffs all the time.”

“If you say so, sweetpea. I’ll see you tonight then,” Bitty says. Jack thinks he sounds just a little less stressed.

“Do you have your resume printed out?” Jack asks next.

“No, not yet. I’ll do that after I decide what tie I’m wearing.”

“Alright, Bits. You’re going to do great, okay? You’re the best baker I know and these people are going to begging you to come work for them in a few months.”

“Goodness I hope so. I gotta go. Bye, honey.”

“Bye, Bits. Love you.”

“Love you too, Jack,” Bitty says, blowing him a kiss before ending the call.

Jack reaches for his phone again, and pulls up the messenger app he can use with wi-fi.

Me: Chowder, I’m going to swing by the Haus this afternoon to get some of Bitty’s stuff. Can you let me in?

Chris Chow: Sure Jack!! What time will you get here?

Me: Probably around 3. 

Chris Chow: Alright! I’ll be home to let you in.

Me: Thanks, Chow.

...

A little over an hour later, Jack climbs down the steps onto the tarmac at the Providence airport. He waves goodbye to the rest of the team as they climb into their respective cars, but instead of heading towards downtown Providence, Jack heads north, towards Samwell. He pulls up in front of the Haus right at three, just like he’d told Chowder. He goes up to knock on the door, but before he can it opens in front of him. 

“Hi, Jack!” Chowder says. He may have spent three years at Samwell, but he’s just as enthusiastic about, well, everything as he was when he came on his Taddy tour.

“Hey, Chowder. How’s it going?” Jack asks, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

“Oh it’s been pretty quiet since we got knocked out of the playoffs,” Chowder says. The team had made it to the first round of the playoffs, but had been knocked out by Boston University last week. Jack couldn’t make it, or even watch on his laptop, but Bittle scored one of Samwell’s two goals. Overall, it could have been a worse end to his senior season.

“How’s Caitlin?” Jack asks, moving towards the stairs. Chowder follows him, as he expects him to.

“I’m here! I’m good!” Caitlin calls from the kitchen. “I’m finishing this stupid paper up now, but I’ll say hi before you leave!”

“She’s good,” Chowder says, smiling.

Jack and Chowder go up the stairs to Bitty’s room, which is unlocked. The room hasn’t changed too much since Bittle moved in. There are still Beyonce posters on the walls and a Georgia banner, some Samwell pendants. The only change is a huge suitcase sitting in the middle of the room, filled with whatever Bitty was planning to take down to Providence that weekend.

“There’s also a box in the kitchen,” Chowder begins. “Bitty packed up some of his baking stuff so that he wouldn’t be too distracted during finals.”

“Knowing him he’ll find a way to bake even if we take everything away.”

“Does he have baking things at your apartment?”

“He has most of what he needs. We’ll have some duplicates of some things, but we have plenty of space,” Jack replies, lifting the suitcase up by its top handle and moving to leave the room.

He carries the suitcase downstairs and out to his car, putting it in the trunk and leaving room for what he assumes will be a small box. Bittle’s not really going to send any of his vital baking equipment away with finals still to come.

But when he goes back inside and into the kitchen, there’s an actual large box sitting on the table. 

“Hi, Jack,” Caitlin says, looking up from her laptop. She’s sitting next to the box.

“Hey, Farmer. How’re things?”

“They’ll be a lot better once I finish this damn case study,” she says. “How are you doing?”

“Good. Things are about to get crazy, so I’m enjoying the calm before the storm.”

“Tell me about it. It must be really exciting, though, having Bitty move in so soon,” she says, eyeing the box next to her. “I have no idea what’s in here, but I hope he’s keeping his baking sheets here. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through finals without his cookies.”

Jack puts his hands on the box and lifts it up for a second before setting it back down on the table. It’s heavier than he expected. Not that he’ll have a problem lifting it, but it’s got some weight to it.

“I’m sure he’s keeping all his essentials here,” Jack replies. 

“Are you picking him up in Boston after his interview?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t know yet, though.”

“We’ll keep it a secret, don’t worry,” Farmer says, giving Chowder, who standing in the doorway, a knowing look.

“I won’t say anything!” he cries.

“I know you won’t _purposefully_ say anything, honey,” Farmer says, her gaze more fond now.

“That’s five for the sin bin, Chowder,” comes a voice from the front door right before Dex appears behind Chowder.

“I didn’t even hear you come in!” Chowder cries.

“I oiled the hinges yesterday. The door was getting creaky. Hey, Jack,” Dex says. 

“Dex,” Jack says, nodding his head at him.

“You here to get Bitty’s stuff?”

“Yeah. Was just about to take this out to the car, actually,” Jack says, going to lift the box.

“Woah, woah, let me get that,” Dex says, shucking off his backpack and striding over to Jack. “We’re done with hockey for the season, but you still have three weeks left of the regular season and then playoffs.”

“I can lift the box, Dex.”

“Nah I’m not risking you popping your shoulder out.”

 

“This is awfully nice of you, Dex,” Farmer says.

“Yeah, way to help Jack out!” Chowder chimes.

“I, uh, may have a bet going with my brother on whether or not the Falconers will win the Cup this year.”

Dex does end up carrying the box out to his car, but before he leaves Jack darts back inside to change out of his suit and into some jeans. He grabs a pair of Bittle’s, too. He says goodbye to Chowder, Farmer, and Dex, and soon finds himself on the road to Boston.

He knows the address of the office where Bittle’s interviewing because he saw it on Bittle’s cover letter, and he lucks out and finds a parking space near the entrance to the building. It’s a renovated warehouse in the seaport, and as five o’clock gets closer more and more people in suits stream out of the buildings. Jack knows Bittle isn’t done with his interview yet because he hasn’t texted him or the group chat. Hopefully it means everything is going well. It’s reasonably warm out, so Jack sits on a bench by a fountain, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

Just after five thirty, Jack spots Bittle coming out of the building. He looks noticeably calmer than he did over skype this morning, and he’s smiling as he looks down at his phone. Almost immediately, Jack’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

 **Bittle** : Just got out of the interview, it ran late! I’m headed to South Station now so I should be in Providence by 7:00. <3

 **Me** : Look up

As soon as Bittle reads the text, his head snaps up, looking around until his eyes land on Jack, who’s standing by the bench now. Bittle breaks into a genuine smile a mile wide, and Jack returns it, because there’s really no way for him not to.

He keeps smiling and Bittle dashes over to him. Jack wants so badly to kiss him right now. His cheeks are pink and he’s smiling that smile and he is everything Jack ever wants. 

Instead, he pulls Bittle into a tight hug. They can do that, especially if no one’s recognized him.

“Well this is a surprise!” Bittle says, pulling out of the hug. “I thought you were going to pick me up in Providence!”

“I had time, so I thought I might as well come here. Maybe we could grab dinner?”

“That sounds wonderful, Jack,” Bittle says, loosening his tie. 

“I brought a pair of your jeans if you want to change into those,” Jack says, motioning towards his car.

“You really did think of everything, didn’t you?”

Jack just smiles. They get Bitty’s jeans out of the car, and then they duck into a nearby shop so that Bitty can use the bathroom to change. 

“Where do you want to go to eat?” Bitty asks as they leave the shop.

“What’s that place you were talking about? The one with the jazz bands?”

“The Beehive. But the bands don’t start until seven pm and you have practice tomorrow at nine.”

“One late night won’t kill me.”

“We can go in June when the season’s done. Until then, I will not be responsible for your underperformance,” Bitty chirps as they reach the car. 

“One night out isn’t going to affect anything. And besides, you’re my good luck charm, remember?”

“You get grumpy when your routine gets put off somehow this late in the season. And do not argue with me, Jack Zimmermann.”

“I’ve gotten a lot better recently,” Jack replies, running around to the driver’s side of the car and climbing in. Bitty is already inside.

“Oh I know you have,” Bitty says, giving Jack a soft look. “But we can go in June when neither of us have anything to worry about. Then we can stay out and dance as late as we want,” 

“Think we’ll last through to June, eh?”

“Oh I know you will. With my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, you and the Falconers will be unstoppable. Especially if Tater insists I make them for him, too.”

“So where do you want to eat _tonight_ , then?”

“How ‘bout we just walk around the South End and see what looks good? It’s a bit early for dinner.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“They drive over to the South End and find a parking space in a garage. While they walk around, Bitty fills Jack in on his job interview.

“Oh Jack I _really_ want to work there. First I sat down with the editor friend of George’s, whose name is Cheryl, by the way, and the head test cook I’d be working under. They asked me a bunch of questions like ‘I see you didn’t go to culinary school, what makes you qualified for this job,’ and ‘What’s your experience editing any type of media?’ And _lord_ I hope I spun everything well because I certainly did _not_ go to culinary school. But I showed them some of my vlog episodes and talked about how I taught myself iMovie and film editing and how I even write scripts now.”

“Well you were in there for over three hours, so I’d say that’s a good sign.”

“Well after that we got to talking about our favorite chefs and how we all got so interested in food and cooking. And then they sprang a test on me.”

“What kind of test?”

They took me into a kitchen, handed me an apron and said to make anything with the ingredients in the cupboards and the refrigerator by five. Except it was already four because we’d chatted so damn long, but Cheryl and Dan said that I could have extra time because usually they give interviewees an hour and a half.”

“That was nice of them. What did you make?”

“Well, I also had to write down my process and the measurements for everything once I was done. I mean, I haven’t used _actual_ measuring cups and spoons since I was seven, so that was a challenge. I _wanted_ to make that apple pie with maple crust I make for you, but I just didn’t have the time. So I made apple-maple muffins instead.”

“They sound delicious. Did Cheryl and Dan like them?”

“I _think_ so. They wouldn’t let me take any home because the rest of their team apparently has to try them. I just hope they last until Monday.”

“Well I’m sure Cheryl and Dan know how to store them so that they will keep.”

It’s well after six now and even though Jack and Bittle have been walking, they haven’t actually been looking at restaurants, like they had meant to. They end up slipping into a fancy café, where they split mushroom ravioli and lobster mac n’ cheese “Because it’s a special occasion, Bits.”

They just beat the huge dinner rush, and no one recognizes Jack, and they’re back in Providence by ten. They pull into the parking garage of Jack’s condo building, and Bitty gets out and makes for the door.

“Wait, we should get your stuff,” Jack says, pressing the button on his key remote to pop his trunk. 

“Sweetheart, I didn’t bring anything this time, remember? Now come on, I want to-” But Bitty stops short, because Jack is lifting his suitcase out of the trunk.

“When did you?”

“I went to Samwell after I got off the plane,” Jack admits. “Do you want to carry your kitchen box or my duffel bag?”

“Your duffel… Jack, have you even been _home_ since you got back from the roadie?”

“No. Do you want the duffel or the box?”

“I will take the duffel _and_ the box, but if you think I’m not going to kiss you first, you have another thing coming,” Bitty says. In a moment the space between the two of them is gone, and Bittle is pulling Jack down to kiss him. Jack’s hands move to Eric’s waist, and for a minute they’re in danger of making out in a parking lot like a pair of teenagers before Bittle finally moves away.

His face is red, and he’s biting his lip the way he does when he’s trying to be coy. Mostly it’s just cute. But it also has to be sexy, somehow, since somehow Jack’s pants usually disappear when Eric gets that look.

“Like I said, I’ll take the duffel _and_ the box.” 

“Are you sure? I mean, you can fit in that duffel bag.”

Bitty just rolls his eyes, goes to one of the back doors of the car, opens it, and pulls out the duffel bag, which he slings over his shoulders, and doesn’t wince when the weight settles. He closes the door, walks around to the trunk, and easily lifts the box up.

“I’ve been eating my protein, Mr. Zimmermann. Now close the trunk and come open some doors for me.

Jack does. And he _should_ go to sleep once they get home. But. Bittle.

...

4/7/2017 13:53

 **Bittle** : I know you’re in practice, but I got the job!!!!!

 **Bittle** : Looks like I’ll be spending a lot of time on the Boston/Providence commuter train. : )

14:25

 **Me** : Congratulations, Bits!

 **Me** : Give me a sec, let me get in my car and I’ll call u

...

“So what exactly are you going to be doing?” Shitty asks. After Bitty’s announcement Friday, most of the SMH alums in the area have gathered back at the Haus the following Sunday to celebrate. There’s a party in full swing. Not a full-on kegster, but loud enough that no one notices Jack come in through the unlocked front door. 

“Editing cookbooks. I have to take the recipes as the authors write them, and try and make the recipes. If I think the instructions are too difficult for someone at a certain skill level to handle or if I think the recipe is wrong I let the editors know.”

“Bits, you’re gonna be telling half of those chefs how to do their jobs better,” Lardo says, smirking over her solo cup. She graduated last year, and is currently living with Shitty in Boston where she works at a gallery on Newbury Street “Selling art to people who have no idea what crap they’re buying.”

“Well, there’s always room for a promotion,” Bitty says, smiling in a way that clearly says “Bless your heart.” Whose heart Bitty is blessing, Jack has no idea.

“Well that sounds ‘swawesome, Bits,” Holster says, and after Bitty says ‘thanks’ Holster turns around and sees Jack leaning against the door frame.

“Yoooo!!” he cries, beer sloshing in his red solo cup. This, of course, causes everyone to turn around. Bitty’s face lights up, Lardo smiles, and Shitty is on him in a second.

“Look at this fucker! Acting all casual and not like he just won the goddamn Art fucking Ross Trophy!” Shitty yells, plastering himself onto Jack’s side and wrapping his arm around Jack’s neck. 

“Nice to see you too, Shits,” Jack says, letting Shitty hang off of him. He’ll let go when he’s ready, eventually, or Lardo will make him. 

“Yeah man, congratulations,” Ransom says, and Holster holds his hand up for a high five, which Jack returns.

“Yeah congratulations, Jack! I told you it was coming!” Bitty exclaims. Jack would very much like to hug Bitty right now, and he can tell Bitty would very much like to hug him, but there are non-SMH people around and…

“Look at you two. Give it five years and you guys’ll have conquered the world through hockey prowess and pie,” Lardo says. 

“You’ll be our overlords,” Ransom chimes.

“As long as I keep getting pie, I have no objection to this,” Holster says.

Bitty laughs. “I promise y’all’ll keep getting pie.”

“Shitty!” Comes Dex’s voice from somewhere in the house. “Get off of Jack’s fucking shoulder!”

Everyone laughs as Dex appears and hands Jack a glass of water.

…

The Haus is mostly cleared out by one. Jack, Bitty, Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster are all spread out over the awful green couch and some of the arm chairs in the living room. Jack is sitting on the couch, and Bittle is sitting on his lap since he still refuses to actually sit on the couch. Chowder and Farmer are tangled up on the floor leaning against said couch, Dex is perched on a chair he brought in from the kitchen, and Nursey is also splayed out on the floor, his face buried in the carpet.

“So you’re like, moving to Providence in May?” Shitty says.

“Yeah,” Bitty says around a yawn. “I’ll move in the day after graduation.”

“Your parents gonna help you move?”

Bitty’s eyes snap open. “I, uh, haven’t actually told them about that. Or about me and Jack,” Bitty admits.

“Brah, just say you’re moving in with Jack until September first,” Shitty says.

“Why September first?”

“Renting in Boston is weird. Most of the leases start September first because so many students rent in the city. Just say you’re commuting from Providence until you’re able to sign a year-long lease.”

“And by the time September first rolls around, your parents will have forgotten all about it,” Lardo adds, although Jack doesn’t think she quite believes it.

“Sounds like a good idea for now,” Jack says, and Bitty closes his eyes and nuzzles his head against his neck.

Bitty is sound asleep a few minutes later, so Jack tells everyone goodnight, lifts Bitty up bridal style (which no one even chirps him for) and carefully carries him upstairs. 

…

The alarm on Jack’s phone sounds at eight thirty even though he doesn’t have skate until this afternoon. The team trainers told him to rest these first few days of the break before playoffs start anyway. They play the Bruins in the division semi-finals on Thursday.

“Mmm getting up in a minute,” Bittle mumbles, his face mostly buried in Jack’s shoulder. It’s a tight fit for the two of them in Bitty’s twin-sized bed, but they make it work.

Jack enjoys the morning sunlight filtering through the blinds, and runs his hand absently up and down Bittle’s back until he stirs again.

“G’morning,” he says, rolling over onto his back, his eyes still only half open.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jack says, leaning down to kiss his boyfriend.

“Congrats on winning the Art Ross. I’m so proud of you, honey,” Bittle says when they pull apart.

“Congrats on landing that job,” Jack says. “I’m really proud of you, too. When do you start?”

“I’m going into Boston next Monday to sit down with HR and iron all that out. I’m hoping I can push my start date until after your playoffs, but we’ll see.”

“If you’re in Boston on Monday you can come to game four,” Jack says. “George already sent me a ticket for you. She, uh, actually got tickets for you for all of the games.”

“I’m beginning to think George would shrink me down for you to keep in your pocket if she could. Then’d I’d be an actual lucky charm.”

“Well she gave me three extra tickets to each game so that ‘the man with the moustache who yells a lot’ can come, too.”

“Shitty’ll be proud to know that’s how George identifies him. Are your parents coming?”

“They’ll come to the regional and divisional finals if we make it that far.”

“Which you _will_.”

“We got knocked out in the divisional finals last year.”

“But _this_ year you won’t.”

Jack is silent for a moment.

“If we _do_ make it, I don’t think I’ll be able to come to your graduation. I’m sorry, Bits,” Jack says. And he is, he really, really is. 

“Oh I know that, honey. Don’t worry about it. My parents’ll leave the day after graduation and I’ll just hop on the train down and be waiting for you in your condo when you finish up.”

“ _Our_ condo, you mean.”

“I am not calling it _our_ condo until I start contributing to rent and other expenses.”

“Fair enough. But it’s still _ours_.”

The next month is nonstop, for both Jack and Bitty. The Falconers win their division semi-final matchup against the Bruins in five games, and Bitty is even able to come watch games four and five. The day after game five, Jack is there as Bitty calls his parents, and tells his mom that he’s moving in with Jack until September first. She seems to accept his explanation, especially since Bittle’s new company is having him start just two weeks after graduation, so there’s not a lot of time to look for an apartment in Boston.

“That was easier than I thought it was going to be,” Bittle admits. Jack chooses not to say anything about how much Bittle’s hands are still shaking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I've gotten the NHL playoff structure down... Hopefully.

After the last week in April, Jack and Bitty don’t see each other in person until Bitty moves in. Jack can’t get away from Providence on Bitty’s birthday, or his graduation, so he has to content himself with sending his boyfriend dozens of flowers and promising Bitty a better present the next time he sees him.

On Bitty’s graduation day, Jack is in Toronto, prepping for game four against the Maple Leafs and looking at his phone way more often than he should. He’s getting a string of text messages from Bitty, who _should_ be listening to his commencement speaker, and a flood of pictures from Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, Holster, Chowder, Dex, and even Nursey. Suzanne and Coach show up in some of the pictures and Suzanne looks on the verge of happy tears. Around eleven the stream of texts from Bitty stops, and a few minutes later Lardo sends Jack a video of Bitty walking across the stage, shaking the president’s hand, and accepting his diploma.

“You watching Eric’s graduation?” a voice says, and Jack looks up. Marty is standing in front of him, an indulgent smile on his face.

“Uh, yeah, that’s...that’s today,” Jack says as Marty sits down beside him.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, kiddo, Make him proud tonight though, eh?” he says, slapping Jack on the back. “He’s moving in with you this week, right? Gabby wants to get him a graduation present and wasn’t sure if she should send it to Samwell or just wait until he’s here.”

“Oh, that’s nice of her. I’m sure Bittle will really appreciate it. He’s coming down tomorrow,” Jack says, not even bothering to hide his smile.

“For good?”

“For uh, for as long as I can keep him.”

Marty just smiles at him. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your video.”

“Jack!!” cries Bitty as soon as their skype call connects. Jack is back in his hotel room after the game. He’s technically sharing with Tater, but Tater excused himself for “victory celebrations” down at the hotel bar, and Jack has a feeling that he’s not going to get out of them entirely tonight.

“Hey, Bits. How does it feel to be a college graduate?”

“Amazing, and a lot less terrifying knowing I have a job n’ all. But _you_ , Mr. Zimmermann. You got a _hatty_ in an otherwise scoreless game!”

“I told you I had a better graduation present for you.”

“You spoil me, sweetie. But shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

“You’re more important. Shouldn’t _you_ be celebrating?”

“Mama and Coach dropped me off here after dinner hours ago. Everyone but Lardo, Chowder, and Farmer had to leave this afternoon, and none of my baking things are here, so unless I want to be thrashed by Lardo in Mario Kart for the twentieth time, I’m not missing much.”

“Tell me about your day, then. I got lots of pictures and video but—“

“Oh lord, what a day. Mama cried about how her baby’s all grown up, our gang of hooligans made the amount of noise you’d expect, and the president didn’t withhold my diploma at the last minute.”

“Did you get the flowers I sent?”

“ _Yes_ I did. And then I had to explain to mama and coach why every flat surface in the Haus had flowers on it.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Well, it wasn’t me, actually, it was Farmer. She jumped in and said her senile grandma thought she was graduating this year, and she brought the flowers to the Haus to ‘cover up the smell of jock.’”

“I didn’t think about that, sorry, Bits.”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little hat-trick-scoring head about it, Mr. Zimmermann. She was very convincing until Chowder said ‘But you’re _also_ a jock.’”

“I wish I could have been there.”

“I wish you could have been here, too. But you were too busing scoring a hat trick for me.”

“Getting ready to score a hat trick for you.”

“Same difference. And a shutout for Snowy, too.”

“Haha yeah. I think he’s downstairs taking a shot for every puck he blocked.”

“It’s a good thing y’all’s next game isn’t for another two days. It’s gonna take him that long to recover.”

“Tell me about it. I just hope I don’t end up sitting next to him on the plane.”

“Your next two games are in Providence, right?”

“Yep. Hopefully we can wrap it up so that we can get some rest time in before the conference championship. Although, since we’re going to be living together now, I’m not sure how much rest I’ll be getting.”

Just as Jack hoped, Bitty blushes. 

“Well if you _really_ think I’ll be that much of a distraction, I’ll just bunk with Lardo until the post-season’s over. It’ll be such an easier commute, anyway and, oh goodness, Jack, I’m _joking_ ,” Bitty hastily adds on, seeing look on Jack’s face. “I’ve barely _slept_ this past week I’m so excited to get down to you.”

“And I don’t plan on letting you get any sleep any time soon.”

…

This is it. Today is the day. All Jack has to do is sit through an hour-long flight, have a short practice back on home ice, get in his car, and then drive home. Where Bittle will be waiting for him. He listens as his coach talks strategy with the team on the plane. He gets a text from Bittle saying he and Lardo are on their way into Boston. He chats with Tater on the bus back to the Dunkin’ Donuts Center. He gets a selfie of Bittle sitting in a seat on the MBTA commuter train. He skates his heart out on the ice and watches tape from their game last night. He gets a text from Bittle, a picture of their condo with the words “Home Sweet Home.” He gets in his car and drives, and the ten minutes it takes him to pull into his parking garage feels like an eternity. He wants to run up the stairs, do anything but wait for this elevator, but it’s sixteen flights up and he’s pretty sure his coaches would kill him. 

But the elevator comes, and takes him up to the fourteenth floor. His floor. Their floor. He practically runs down the hall to his unit, fumbles as he puts the key into the lock, and finally swings the door open.

Beyonce is playing at a surprisingly reasonable level. The windows are open and Jack can smell apple-maple pie wafting from the kitchen. He closes the door, and as he does, Bittle appears like magic. 

“Welcome home, Jack!” he says, and Jack steps forward to scoop him up before he can say anything else.

…

Jack and the Falconers win the Atlantic Division. In two days they’re set to head down to Washington, DC, to face off against the Capitals for the Eastern Conference finals. Right now, Jack and Bitty are at the family skate the coaches decided to hold after practice today. It’s Bittle’s first official family skate, even though he’s met most of the people here before. Marty’s and Thirdy’s kids rush over to Bittle as soon as he steps on the ice, and Jack thinks he’ll be lucky if he’s allowed to do one hand-in-hand lap around the rink with him.

“Eric! Are you living with Jack now? Are you going to babysit us all the time now?” asks Keiley, Thirdy’s daughter.

“Not _all the time_ ,” Bitty says, squatting down so that he’s nearly level with her. Not for the first time in his life, Jack uses to opportunity to get an eyeful of That Ass. “But a lot more often!” He sounds genuinely thrilled about it.

Keiley pouts, but luckily Carrie chooses this moment to skate over.

“Eric is going to be working in Boston, sweetie. But we’ll have him and Jack over for dinner and he can tell you all about it.”

“Isn’t Boston a long way from Providence?”

“Not too far, Keiley,” Bittle says. “I’ll get to take a train back and forth everyday, which’ll be fun.”

“Trains aren’t that cool.”

“You know who does really like trains though?” Carrie asks. “Bennie. Bennie loves trains. Why don’t you go help your dad and Marty teach Bennie how to skate, and then tell him all about Eric’s train?”

“Okay!” Keiley says, skating off to where Marty is holding little Bennie’s hands as he toddles on his tiny skates. Thirdy and Gabby, Marty’s wife, are both taking video on their phones. 

“She hasn’t stopped talking about you moving down here since the last time you came to dinner,” Carrie admits, smiling at Bittle. “Congratulations, by the way! Graduated college and you already have a job. Jack’s lucky he roped in such a keeper.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jack says as Gabby skates over.

“Hello, Eric!” she says, skating up to pull Bittle into a hug. “Congratulations on your graduation! Marty and I have a little something for you, if you’ll stick around until the end of the skate.”

“Oh, thank you, Gabby, but y’all didn’t have to do that!”

“Don’t protest, Eric. If it makes you feel better, we got a present for our other babysitter when she graduated from Brown this month. And-“ she adds, dropping her voice into a mock whisper “we like _you_ better. Plus your Jack’s partner, so of course we’re going to get you something.”

“It’s going to be hard to top that Le Creuset Dutch oven, though. I don’t even cook, and I know those things are magic,” Carrie adds, winking at Jack.

“You’re coming to the first two games in DC, right?” Gabby asks.

“Of course! I wouldn’t miss them for the world!” Bittle replies.

“Good! You can sit with us then. And Snowy’s girlfriend,” Gabby says, looking over to where Snowy is dutifully helping a short woman with tortoise-shell glasses complete a lap around the rink. “She’s a grad student at Brown, apparently. They’ve been dating for almost a year and he’s only just started bringing her around.”

“He was probably afraid we’d scare her off,” Carrie says, and Gabby laughs. 

“We’ll herd her over to you two later so that she knows she’s not the only family skate virgin,” Gabby says just as Keiley skates back over.

“Eric! My dad says that he doesn’t think I’m faster than you! We have to race!”

“Alright, Miss Keiley, although I don’t know _why_ your dad thinks anyone could be faster than you.”

“That’s what I said! Mommy, you have to watch us and tell Daddy!”

“Sure thing. Why don’t you two line up here,” she points behind her at center ice. “And whoever’s the first to make it past the goal line wins?”

Bitty and Keiley move over the center ice, and Carrie goes down to the other end of the rink so that she can properly see who crosses the line first. Jack and Gabby move off behind the two racers. 

“On your mark!” Carrie calls, and Bittle shifts into something like a speed skater’s starting pose. Keiley, watching him closely, does the same. Jack, watching Bitty’s ass, is probably being too obvious.

“On your mark! Get set! Go!” Carrie calls, and instantly Bittle and Keiley spring off. Bittle isn’t going anywhere near his top speed, and he’s purposefully holding himself back as he lets Keiley outstrip him. She glides over the finish line a second before Bitty, who is extremely congratulatory.

“You’ve got a keeper there,” Gabby tells Jack in Québécois. “He’s a good guy, and he’s also got a great hockey butt,” Jack swivels his head around, and can feel himself going red. “Yes I saw you looking, Jack Laurent Zimmermann.”

“What did you say? He’s as red as a tomato,” Marty says, finally skating over with little Bennie. 

“That’s between me and Jack, mon cher. Bennie, did Keiley tell you about Bitty’s train?”

 

…

“Your flight is boarding soon, right?” Jack says. He’s on a break from the Falconer’s first practice at the Verizon Center in DC. The team flew down on a charter flight yesterday to get some ice time in the capital before the game. Most of the spouses and partners coming to the first two games are flying down this afternoon.

“Yeah my group boards in about ten minutes,” Bitty says. 

“You know you could have flown with Gabby and Carrie.”

“They’re flying first class on another airline. I am letting you pay for my hotel, Jack, let me pay for my flight.”

“But it’s not _my_ money, Bits, it’s ours.”

“When I start getting regular paychecks we can put our heads together and talk finances. Until then I’m paying for my own flights.”

“So in… five days we can talk 401ks, joint savings accounts, and maybe a Roth IRA? I can’t wait.”

“Ugh you know what I mean. I gotta go, though, I think I see Snowy’s girlfriend.”

“Alright. Where are you sitting, if I don’t get to talk to you before the game?”

“Somewhere in the Club Level, I don’t know which side. You have the sandwich I made you?”

“Yes, and I also gave Tater his.”

“Good. I’ve got bread and jelly with me, and I’ll buy peanut butter in DC, so I’ll be able to make you a fresh one for tomorrow.”

“Wait, you’re bringing homemade jelly on the plane?”

“Everything is compliant with FAA regulations. Now that _is_ Karen over there, so I’m gonna go say hi. Good luck tonight, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Bits. I’ll see you after the game tonight. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

…

Jack texts Bittle throughout the rest of the day. His coaches are pretty strict about roadies, even more so now that the Falconers are in the playoffs, and they’re not even letting spouses and partners stay at the same hotel as the team. Jack remembers last year when they played Ottowa in the division finals how Marty got extremely grumpy when Gabby wasn’t allowed to stay with him on their anniversary, and Jack thinks he understands now. Sure, Bitty is only going to be a couple of blocks away, but it’s the closest they’ve been without sleeping in the same bed in almost two years. It feels wrong.

But Bitty arrives at his hotel, and promptly sends texts to Jack berating him for how fancy it all is. Bittle, Gabby, Carrie, (and Karen, apparently) are staying at a smaller boutique hotel a little further down M Street from the Four Seasons, where the team is staying. As Jack eats his pb&j, Bitty sends him pictures of the dinner he’s having with Karen, Gabby, and Carrie. 

At about that time, the coaches tell everyone to put their phones away, and Jack doesn’t think he’s sneaky enough to try and steal glances at it. At least he knows where Bittle is sitting—George filled him in when she came in briefly before going to her own seat.

When he skates out onto the ice, he looks up and to the right, following Marty’s lead. He can just make out Bittle, seated between Karen and Carrie, decked out in all of the Falconer’s gear he owns.

Jack doesn’t usually pay attention to the crowds when he’s playing. He mostly just tries to tune them out, and for the most part tonight is no different. But when he goes to face off against Ovechkin, it helps to think that he can just make out Bitty’s voice in the crowd.

“It’s a one am curfew for all of you. I want you all ready to go back to the rink at ten am,” Coach Michel says before the charter bus doors open. That means Jack will have a little over an hour to spend with Bitty. Which is not nearly enough time. He should go to bed, but he’s still hyped up on adrenaline. They eked out a 2-1 win, with Jack scoring the winning goal with seconds left in the third period. 

He climbs into the elevator with the rest of the team to take it up to their floor of the hotel, and follows Tater into the room they’re sharing. 

“Tell Bee thank you for the jelly sandwich! Is what got me such good assist,” he says, throwing his duffel bag on the bed by the window. “You are going to see him now, yes?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back by curfew though.”

“If you are not, I will cover for you.”

“Haha, thanks, Tater.”

Jack changes out of his post-game suit for jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweater, doffs a baseball cap, and slips out the hotel’s back door. As soon as he’s outside, he regrets the sweater. It feels like he’s walking through mud.

**Me** : Omw to yr hotel. What’s yr room number?

**Bittle** : 508!

A couple minutes later finds Jack at the hotel, and he takes the stairs up to Bitty’s floor. Bitty answers Jack’s first knock, and practically pulls him inside.

“Let me see your face,” is the first thing out of his mouth. Jack caught a pretty rough check in the last few minutes of the second period. It didn’t require stitches, but he still got a nasty cut on his chin.

“Really, Bits, I’m fine,” Jack says, and before Bitty can really examine him, Jack pulls him into a kiss.

“You have a good time?”

“I did. I learned _so much_ tonight, mainly about the partner group’s dynamics but also you would not _believe_ that Karen—“

“Bits, I want to hear all of this, but I do only have an hour,” Jack says, moving his hands down to hook his fingers through his belt loops.

“Well we could… oh, _oh_ ,” Bitty says as Jack’s hands move to his belt buckle.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Jack says, unbuckling Bitty’s pants and pulling them with him as he kneels down.

…

An hour later, Jack sneaks back into the hotel. He hopes that Tater hasn’t gone to bed yet.

“Zimboni! How is little Bee?”

Tater is propped up against the headboard of his bed, watching something on the room tv. He smiles when Jack comes in.

“He’s uh, he’s great. He… He went out with Carrie, Gabby, and Karen before the game.”

“You tell him thank you from me?”

“Oh, yeah. I did. He says uh, he says that he’ll be sure to make you another one for tomorrow night.”

Tater smiles knowingly at him.

“You did not tell Little Bee thank you, Zimboni, but I understand. You shower, and then we turn off lights so coaches do not yell at us, yes?”

…

The next night the Falconers win in another 2-1 game, so it’s back to Providence for the next two games in the series. If they’re lucky, Jack thinks, they can wrap it up with these two and not have to go back to DC. Bitty’s starting his new job next Monday, and definitely won’t be able to come down to cheer Jack on.

They fly into Providence separately, but meet up back home.

“You need to nap, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty says as soon as he walks in the door. Instead of baking something, like Jack expects him to be doing, he appears to be cleaning up the condo. The blankets they usually have thrown all over their couch are nicely folded. The dining room table looks freshly cleaned, and Jack can hear the washer and dryer going.

“What are you doing?” he asks. He should nap, but he can protest later.

“Your parents are coming tomorrow, and I will not have this place looking like a pro hockey player’s bachelor pad.”

“It’s clean!” 

“Maybe clean enough for you and me, but not for your parents.”

“Bits, my parents really don’t care. You don’t need to stress out about this.”

“It’s too late, I already am.”

“At least let me help, then.”

“You can clean the guest bathroom and put clean sheets on their bed, but only after you’ve taken a nap.”

“I clean the bathroom, take a nap, and then puts sheets on the bed and vacuum the entire apartment.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

When his parents arrive the next morning, they’re greeted with the smell of banana bread and a very, very clean condo.

“Oh it smells delicious in here, Eric! And so clean!” his mom exclaims as she pulls Eric into a hug. 

“I just took some banana bread out of the oven!” Eric says, returning the hug. Jack knows Bittle and his mom text regularly, and have been since March of Bittle’s junior year. 

“Good to see you, Eric,” Jack’s dad says, hugging Eric as soon as his wife is done. 

“You too, Bob.”

Once his parents have stowed their suitcases in the guest room, they all sit in the living room sipping coffee and munching on banana bread. Well, Eric, Jack, and Alicia munch. Bob wolfs half the loaf down. Not for the first time in the past two years Jack thinks _I don’t deserve this_ and _I am so, so lucky_. Lucky to be here, lucky to have Bittle, lucky to have his parents. He remembers a time when the thought of his parents, especially his dad, coming to a game was enough to give him an anxiety attack. Now, there’s a twinge of unease, but nothing more. Just having Bittle in his life has changed so much.

He leaves for the rink around three. The game starts at eight tonight, and he’s nervous, sure, but he knows his team can beat the Caps. It’s just a question of by how much and how quickly.

They beat the Caps that night in another 2-1 game. When he comes out of the showers and back into the dressing room, Marty clears his throat to get the team’s attention. 

“Alright, guys. We’re ahead, so that means we’re going to get asked questions about who we think we’re going to face off against in the finals. Las Vegas is playing San Jose as we speak, and they both have one win with 10:47 left in the second period. When they ask you, you give them the line that we’re taking it one game at a time, and are focusing on beating the Caps right now. Got it?”

“Got it,” the rest of the team chimes back.

“You played really well tonight, Jack,” his dad says in the car on the way home. Bittle is driving, and Jack is seated in the passenger seat next to him. His parents are both in the back seat.

“Thanks, dad,” Jack says. “It was a team effort, though.”

“Of course it was. But you’re the only one who’s managed to get the puck past the Cap’s goalie in all three games.”

Jack opens his mouth to say something about Tater’s assists and how at least one of those was a lucky shot, but Bitty interrupts him.

“Jack, you are not allowed to qualify any compliments anyone in this family gives you until after game four, or I will not make anything that fits into your diet plan.”

“Haha, alright,” Jack says, partially because he doesn’t have a clever chirp to come back with, but mostly because Bitty just declared himself part of this family, and Jack will never argue with that.

…

It’s the intermission between the second and third period. It’s a tie game, 2-2 this time. And Jack never thought he’d say this, but he _really_ doesn’t want to play hockey in three days. Because in three days, Bitty starts his new job, and Jack doesn’t want to be in Washington, DC for that.

“Kiddo’s got his game face on,” Thirdy says. “Guys, if there is even a slim chance that Zimboni is going to be able to shoot, get him the goddamn puck.”

Jack scores his second goal of the night three minutes into the third period. He checks Oshie a little harder than he normally would, steals the puck, passes to Marty, who scores. 

They win the game 4-2. Bitty threatens Jack with off-diet baking, and he endures a car ride as the center of attention.

The following Monday, Bitty’s alarm goes off before Jack’s. Bitty doesn’t even yawn when he gets up—he must be excited, and he bounces to the bathroom to take a shower. Jack gets up, and moves to the kitchen to make an egg white and spinach omelet for himself, and one with real eggs, onions, bacon, and mushrooms for Bittle with the leftover Gruyere cheese. He times it perfectly—he’s just sliding Bittle’s omelet out of the pan and onto the plate when Bittle comes out of the bedroom, wearing Jack’s robe that’s way too big for him.

“I didn’t want to get food on my outfit,” he says, and then sees the two plates sitting on the breakfast bar. “Jack, did you make me _breakfast_?”

“You going to need your protein today,” he replies, filling up a glass of orange juice for each of them. 

“Well aren’t you just the sweetest thing. Thank you, honey,” he says, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Jack. They eat their breakfast quickly—Bitty has to catch the 7:15 train, and it’s already almost 6:30. He finishes the last of his food and scurries back into the bedroom. Jack puts the plates in the sink, and then opens the bread box to find the fresh loaf of sourdough Bitty baked yesterday.

“Alright, how do I look?” Bitty asks a few minutes later.

“Like a qualified young professional,” Jack says, instead of "perfect", which he knows won’t be taken seriously. 

“Damn right I do,” Bitty says. He’s wearing the same outfit he wore to Jack’s graduation two years ago, bowtie and all. The only addition is the leather briefcase his parents got him as a graduation present. 

“Here’s your lunch,” says Jack, handing Bittle a brand-new Falconers lunch box. 

“Thanks, sweetie!” Bittle says, taking the box from Jack and opening up the lid to peek inside. “Now I’ll just have to find somewhere to eat it. You think the cool kids will let me sit with them at lunch?”

“Bits, by the end of the week the cool kids are going to be begging to sit with you.”

“Well let’s hope so, Mr. Zimmermann. Now I need to go catch the shuttle to the train station.”

“Wait one sec,” Jack says, reaching for his camera, which he set on the dining room table earlier last night. “We need to take a picture, it’s your first day at work.”

Bitty chuckles and rolls his eyes, but lets Jack pose him in front of the door. Jack snaps a few pictures.

“Alright, you can go now. Make sure you take a selfie on the train and send it to your mom.”

“I won’t forget. See you tonight, sweetheart,” Bitty says, and Jack leans down to kiss him one last time before he’s out the door.

There’s a shuttle that goes from the condo complex to the Providence train station a couple of times each morning, so Bitty doesn’t have to worry about getting to the station on time. Maybe Bitty will let Jack buy him a car in a few months, so he doesn’t always have to worry about catching the train. 

Jack goes on his morning run, comes home, showers, cleans up the kitchen, and heads to the rink for eleven am practice. Today the entire team does conditioning, and then they spend some time in the weight room before settling down to watch the tape of the Sharks/Aces game last night. 

“It looks like they’re going to play out the entire seven games,” Coach Michel says before he starts the tape up. “Which is good for us, because we’ll have some time to rest and prepare for whatever team we end up facing.”

Last night’s game between the Aces and the Sharks ended in a tie. Kent is his usual aggressive self with the puck, but Swift, the Aces goalie, has been out with a knee contusion knee the past two games of the series, and the backup goalie hasn’t found his feet yet. 

“There’s no reason to hope that Swift will stay injured for the Stanley Cup, if the Aces advance. He’ll probably be back in by game seven.”

Both the Aces and the Sharks are looking good, but their styles of playing are so different it’s going to impossible to truly prepare for both. Jack says as much to Marty after the tape ends. As a team they need to work on their basics—they can’t get too cocky—until they find out who they’ll be playing for the cup. 

“If you want to be the one who tells the team that we’re going to be running drills for the next three days, I won’t object,” Marty says. “Just make sure you bring pie to smooth the feathers you’re going to ruffle.”

“Sebastian St. Martin, you told me the exact same thing before we went into tape today. You just want Eric’s pie,” Thirdy says indignantly. 

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” Marty says, laughing as they head out to the parking lot.

Jack gets home a little after three. He still has another four hours until Bittle gets home, so he sets to work. Bittle must be busy, because Jack’s only gotten three texts from him all day, over what he assumes was Bittle’s lunch break.

At 5:40 Jack gets a text from Bittle saying his commuter train has just pulled out of South Station, but Jack doesn’t hear Bittle’s key in the lock on the front door until almost seven.

“Honey, I’m home!” Bittle calls in a sing-song voice.

“How was your first day?” Jack says, appearing and scooping Bittle up into a hug, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Amazing! And I’ll tell you all about it once you put me down.”

“Okay,” Jack says, but instead of setting Bittle down he carries him into the kitchen, setting him down to sit on the counter top. 

“That is _not_ what I meant,” Bittle says, but he’s smiling as he toes his shoes off. “Jack, it smells _delicious_ in here.”

“I made us dinner,” Jack says, nodding over at the table out on the balcony, which is all set. “I was just waiting until you got home to put the shrimp in and toss the salad. It’s so warm out I thought we could eat outside.”

“You have the best ideas, Jack Zimmermann. But it almost smells like cobbler in here.”

“Oh, I made peach cobbler for dessert.”

From his perch on the counter, Bitty reaches out, grabs Jack by the shirt collar, and pulls him into a kiss.

“I love you, Jack, you know that, right?” Bitty smiles into his mouth when they break for air.

“I love you too, Bits.”

They eat dinner on their balcony that night, sipping white wine and watching the sunset. Bitty tells Jack he’ll “make a baker out of you yet,” when he tastes the cobbler, and Jack beams like he’s just won the Stanley Cup.

Later, they’re cleaning up the dishes when Bittle’s mom calls.

“Hey, Mama!” Bitty says.

Jack can’t hear what Suzanne says next, but he hears Bittle’s answer.

“Oh it was _wonderful_. Jack got up early and made me breakfast and packed me a lunch in this adorable little Falconers lunchbox, and then when I got home he’d made dinner and a peach cobbler that’s makes me think I’ll make him into a southern cook yet.”

Again, Jack doesn’t hear Suzanne’s answer, but Bittle laughs at whatever she said.

“Of course I’m gonna tell you ‘bout what actually went on at work. First part of the day was mostly HR stuff, but I have a desk near some of the other editorial assistants and the kitchen in this place, the ovens are works of art…”

Bittle and Suzanne chat for another hour before Bittle says “Well, I gotta get up at five thirty again, so I need to get to sleep…. Oh mama, I can’t afford to live anywhere in Boston that won’t involve at least thirty minutes on the T, so it’s not too much different. Alright, love you too, mama, say hi to Coach for me.”

“Are you trying to prepare her for when you don’t move to Boston in September?” Jack asks. He’s sitting on the couch, reading a new WWII monograph Shitty had snagged for him at some signing at Harvard.

“Yes,” Bittle says, flopping down onto the couch and putting his head in Jack’s lap. 

“Do you think they’ll figure it out?”

“Part of me hopes so, part of me doesn’t. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I’m with you whatever you decide to do, Bits,” Jack says, and Bittle smiles up at him, reaching up to pull his face down to meet his. Jack expects the kiss to be sweet, and it is, but only for a moment before Bittle’s tongue is pushing its way into Jack’s mouth, in way that can only mean one thing.

“I thought you said you needed to go to bed,” Jack says, a little breathless. 

Bittle raises his eyebrows, takes a hold a Jack’s right wrist, where he wears his watch, and pulls it close to his face, pretending to take a long look at it.

“Well, your bedtime’s not for another hour, but I _suppose_ —“

Jack doesn’t let him finish.

...

Jack hasn’t really been paying attention to the Aces/Sharks series, but late Saturday night, just after they’ve finished up a movie, Bitty’s phone starts ringing, the caller id showing “Farmer.”

Bitty answers almost immediately. “Farmer? What’s up?”

“We have a Chris emergency, Bitty. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Hold on, Caitlin, let me put you on speaker,” Bitty says.

“Can you hear me? Is Jack there?” Famer asks. Somehow she sounds both resigned and frantic.

“I’m here, what’s wrong with Chowder?” Jack asks.

“Are you guys together? What’s happened?” Bitty adds.

“I came over to his place to watch the final Sharks/Aces game.”

“But the Sharks won,” Bitty says.

“Exactly. And Chris realized that the Sharks will be playing the Falconers and Jack. He’s just been staring at the black tv screen since I turned it off.”

“How long has it been?” Bitty asks.

“About thirty minutes. I can see the wheels turning in his head, it’s—“

“Farmer, Chowder can root for the Sharks. I’m not one to get in the way of that kind of love,” Jack says.

“Oh thank God. Do you mind telling him that? It might be able to jolt him out of this.”

“Sure, put him on.”

Jack and Bitty hear Farmer walking down a hallway, and then a “Hey, Chris? I got Bitty and Jack on the phone.” They can’t really hear what Chowder says to this, but a moment later Farmer puts her phone on speaker.

“Chowder, are you there?” Jack asks.

“Oh Jack, I, wow, Jack, you’re going to be playing against the Sharks.”

“This time next week bud.”

“Yeah, and that’s really great! Obviously! And you’re one of my good friends and you’re Bitty’s boyfriend and you gave me your dibs and I—“

“Chowder,” Jack interrupts. “You can root for the Sharks. They’re your home team, you probably love them as much as you love Farmer.”

“ _More_ than he loves Farmer. I’m the other woman in this relationship,” Farmer teases.

“Caitlin! I don’t—“

“Chowder, Jack won’t be sad, disappointed, offended, or anything if you root for the Sharks,” Bitty says. “Right, Jack?”

“Yeah. Chowder, you should root for the Sharks. No hard feelings, but I can’t promise not to beat them.”

“Oh no! I wouldn’t expect you to lose just for me! But I promise I won’t be glad if someone checks you or anything.”

“May the best team win, Chowder. Now get up off the couch and hang out with your girlfriend.”

“Aye aye, Captain!” Chowder calls. Caitlin takes the phone off speaker.

“Thanks, guys, I think he’s back to normal now.”

“No problem, Farmer. Have a good night,” Jack says.

“Night, Farmer!” Bitty calls.

“Night, you two. Talk to you later.”

She hangs up, and Bitty and Jack each let loose a laugh that they’d been holding in for the past few minutes.

“That sweet child. I wish he was closer. He needs a pie.”

“You should ask Farmer to send you pictures of Chowder watching the game. I bet his faces will be prime chirping material.”

“Boy is already going to be a wreck come the cup finals. Let’s not torture him anymore than he’s torturing himself.”

…

The first two games of the Stanley Cup take place in Providence: Tater and Thirdy guilt-tripped Bitty into making PB&J sandwiches for the entire team before the first game.

“But what if I give y’all food poisoning?” Bitty cries as he takes a second loaf of bread out of the oven. “Or what if y’all win and I have to make sandwiches before every game _for the rest of my life_??”

“Only before playoff games, Bittle,” Jack says, stealing a spoonful of homemade grape jam.

“Hey, leave some of that for your old man,” Jack dad’s admonishes, swiping the jar from Jack.

Bitty and Alicia look at each other and exchange perfectly coordinated put-upon sighs.

The Falconers do win that night, 3-1. They win the next night, too, 5-2. The next day, Bitty gives Jack a fresh loaf of bread to take to San Jose, but tells him “There is perfectly good peanut butter and jelly on the West Coast. Not as good as mine, of course, but I’m sure you can manage. 

Unfortunately, Tater discovers the loaf of bread on the plane ride to San Jose, and before Jack knows it it’s almost all gone. He had to fight to make sure there was enough leftover for two small sandwiches.

They have a day to get used to the time difference and to get some time on the ice. His parents are both here again, so Jack goes out to do some touristy stuff with them and grab an early dinner before ten pm curfew. He sends Bittle pictures of everywhere he goes, and even tries to take a selfie with his mom.

Just after he gets back to the hotel, his phone starts going off. The SMH group shat is buzzing.

Chowder: jack!!! oh my god jack thank you!!!!!

Below the initial message is a picture of four tickets, two for game three and two for game four.

Holster: Shit man. Those are rink-side seats.

Ransom: How come we don’t get seats like that?!

Bittle: Do you live in San Jose, Ransom?

Ransom: No! But I live in Boston! A city easily accessible to Providence, Rhode Island, where my friend Jack PLAYS HOCKEY IN THE NHL

Shitty: Let Bitty and Jack spoil their first and only son, Ransom.

Lardo: Pretty sure Jack’s blacklisted you from games after the Mashkov Incident

Ransom: I WAS NOT EXPECTING A LARGE RUSSIAN D MAN TO SHOW UP AND COMPLIMENT MY OUTFIT OKAY

Holster: I lost all respect for Mashkov when he said he liked your salmon shorts

Lardo: The man does wear ostentatious gold chains, what did you expect?

Holster: More tracksuits, less obnoxious prep?

Bittle: Alexei is a sweetheart and I won’t hear a word against him. Chowder, you have to make sure to take pictures!

Chowder: I will Bitty I promise!

Me: You’re welcome, Chowder. Enjoy the game

Me: Bits, before you defend Tater’s honor you should know he stole most of the bread you made

Bittle: ... Well if y’all lose we’ll know who to blame.

..

They do lose, 2-1. Jack plays well enough, but none of the Falconers are connecting with the puck like they usually do, and they just feel out of sync. It’s a hard loss, somehow made even harder by seeing the look on Chowder’s face as Jack leaves the rink. It’s a mixture of glee and shame.

Later that night, Jack skypes Bitty, even though it’s almost 2 am in Providence.

“You’ll do better tomorrow night, sweetheart. And you did score, so that’s something to be thankful for.”

“My personal success doesn’t make me feel any better about everyone as a team. But you need to sleep, and there’s one more thing we need to talk about.”

“What’s that?”

“The fact that I have actual paternal feelings towards Chowder. What have you done to me, Bittle?”

The sound of Bitty’s laugh means Jack doesn’t go to bed _too_ anxious.

…

The next day before the game, Chowder sends another picture to the group chat. It’s a selfie that clearly shows he’s wearing a Falconers t-shirt under his Sharks jersey.

Shitty: Don’t let anyone sitting near you see that. I don’t want to hear you’ve been shamed by angry Sharks fans.

Nursey: They’re not going to actually hurt him.

Shitty: No, but all someone has to do is tell him he’s not a “real fan” and our poor Chowder will melt into a puddle of shame.

Nursey: Fair enough

…

The Falconers still lose 2-1. Jack doesn’t score that night, but he gets an assist.

...

The next night, Jack gets home before Bitty. He’s so tired he leaves his bag in the hall, goes to the bedroom, shucks off everything but his boxers, and crawls into bed.

When he wakes up, there’s the barest hint of sunlight seeping through the curtains, and his face is mushed up against a striped tank top he’s very familiar with.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Bittle says, running his hand through Jack’s hair. Jack doesn’t reply, just nuzzles into Bittle even more in the hopes that he’ll keep massaging Jack’s head. He does. Perfect.

Bittle doesn’t ask Jack about the games. Instead, he talks about the company-wide camping trip he’s going on in August. It’s an annual thing, apparently.

“Have to thank my lucky stars I went on so many overnight camping and fishing trips with Coach and my cousins. I can make _anything_ over a campfire.”

“Don’t try anything too fancy. Part of the charm of camping is roasting hot dogs on sticks, right?”

“Mmhmm. And s’mores. But Danny was talking about a chili he makes every year so I volunteered to make cornbread.”

“Sounds like fun. And it’s in August?”

“Mmmhmm. First weekend. So it’ll be well before the season starts. Think the team could spare you?” Bittle says like he already knows the answer.

“Even if they couldn’t, I’m not passing up the opportunity to see you try to camp.”

“I’ve been camping more than you. How many times have you been camping?”

“There was that one time with Shitty-“

“Going to the Knight family cabin in the Green Mountains does not count.”

“Well then I guess you’re just going to show me your rugged Georgia ways. Do you still have your camo jacket or did you burn it?”

“It is still down in Georgia, thank you very much. Now, tell your rugged Georgia gentleman what kind of delivery you want so he can order it with his phone app.”

…

The next morning, Jack is surprised when Bittle wakes him up before his alarm. It’s a Saturday, so he doesn’t have to go to work.

“Wake up, Mr. Zimmermann. We’re going for a run.”

“What?” Jack says, sitting up. Bittle is standing next to the bed, wearing an old Samwell Under Armour top and shorts that are just _so_ short.

“We’re going on a run. You’ve basically been asleep since you got home yesterday. Put your awful running shoes on so we can get back before it gets too hot.”

Bitty leaves the room and Jack obediently does as he’s told. When he comes out to the kitchen, Bitty is already doing warm up stretches.

“Never thought you’d be the one to wake me up at 4 am,” Jack says, positioning himself to get the best view while he stretches.

“It is six am, for your information. And stop ogling my ass and stretch.”

Once they’ve sufficiently warmed up, Bitty puts a lanyard with his key around his neck, and walks out the door. After he locks up, he turns to Jack.

“Alright first one down the stairs and out the door gets to pick where we run today,” and before Jack knows it, Bitty is off. Chasing Bittle to the end of the hall, Jack barely manages to save the door to the stairway from slamming shut, and Bittle is still easily half a flight below him.

“Don’t trip!” Bitty calls unhelpfully.

Bitty is as fast as ever, and waves cheerfully to Morris, the weekend front desk attendant, as he easily beats Jack out the door. Bitty isn’t even panting, doesn’t look tired.

“You’ve been running while I was gone?” Jack asks.

“It was that or cover every surface of our condo with pie,” Bitty says, smiling. “Now, let’s go run down by the river.”

They run a good three miles that morning, about average for Jack. Bittle’s pace makes him faster than usual, and they’re both drenched with sweat by the time they break for cool-down, drinking copiously from one of the water fountains.

“Let’s walk back home,” Bitty says.

Jack wishes he could hold Bittle’s hand, or wrap his arm around his waist. But there are people around.

“Why’d you wake me up this early? I have practice at eleven.”

“As much as I don’t miss broody, distant playoff-Jack,” Bitty begins, looking a little nervous. “I don’t know, you seemed like you were kind of in a funk. Like you’re playing the games but not playing.”

“You think I’m not putting 100% in?”

“Jack, you don’t do 100%, you do 110%. You’re putting in the effort, but it doesn’t look like you’re enjoying it. It just looks like you’re treating it as something you have to get through, at least when you were playing in San Jose.”

Jack considers this for a moment as they cross the street. He considers it until they’re almost at the door to their building. Bittle, who’s learned that Jack’s silence doesn’t necessarily mean anger, lets him think.

“You’re right,” Jack says as they walk inside. Bitty presses the button to call the elevator, and it opens almost immediately. “I don’t know. I guess I was just expecting there to be more pressure? And there isn’t. It’s almost like each one is just another game,” he says once they’re safely inside the elevator.

“You made it to the playoffs your first year in the NHL. You didn’t screw up, you didn’t carry the team on your back, you didn’t have a visible rivalry with Kent Parson, and you didn’t crack under pressure. You played good hockey, you played great hockey. And this year you’re in the Stanley Cup finals, and you’re still not cracking, like the press and certain asses on ESPN expected you to,” Bitty says, and of course he’s right. The elevator dings, signaling their arrival on their floor. They walk down the hall in silence, but as soon as the door is closed, Bittle speaks again.

“You have incredibly high expectations for yourself, Jack. But they’ve finally gotten to be healthy expectations. Look around this apartment, there’s not a ‘Be Better’ poster to be seen,” Bitty says, smiling and standing up on his toes cup Jack’s face. “But you’ve been scrutinized by other people since the day you were born, people who frankly should have better things to do with their lives. You have the drive and the talent to be one of the best players in the NHL—don’t stall because the weight of expectation is suddenly gone.”

Jack nods, leaning into Bitty’s touch.

“You are in the _Stanley Cup Finals_. Play the game you love in the Stanley Cup finals.”

All Jack can really do is kiss Bitty. He doesn’t have the words to express what he means otherwise.

They shower together, and Bitty makes them a massive egg scramble for breakfast, with bacon and spicy sausage, peppers, cheese, and mushrooms. Jack goes to practice and plays his heart out. When he gets home he’s still wired, so he does push-ups with Bitty sitting on his back, and Bitty recording the entire thing.

“One day I am going to post this on twitter, and the internet will explode,” Bitty proudly proclaims.

The Falconers face the Sharks in Providence on Sunday night. As he skates out onto the ice, Jack looks up to where Bitty, his parents, Shitty, and Lardo are sitting. Shitty brought the “Yo Marry Me Jack Zimmermann” sign, and he waves it wildly whenever a camera happens to be pointed at him. Since he’s sitting with Bob and Alicia Zimmermann, he’s almost always waving the sign.

The puck drops, and Jack wrests it away, passes it back to Tater. Passes to Poots. Stolen by Pavelski. Passed to Marleau. Jack skates up alongside him, catches the puck as he tries to pass. Jack passes it to Tater. Passes to Marty. Jack skates up towards the San Jose goal, Burns trailing him. Marty passes to Thirdy. Jack feints, lets Burns pass him. Gets open, receives from Marty, skates around the goal, sees Burns and Martin coming towards him, swerves, shoots, _scores_.

Thirdy comes up for the first bump, and Jack looks up at where his people are sitting. Shitty is practically foaming at the mouth, Lardo’s doing her “not bad, Zimmermann,” nod, his parents are cheering, and Bittle is _beaming_.

The rest of the period is decidedly less simple. Marty, Thirdy, and Tater all take shots, but all are blocked. Snowy is exposed more often then he should be, but he doesn’t let anything past him.

After intermission, Marty takes the faceoff. Jack’s thankful for it. But he gets the puck soon enough, somehow avoids a check that sends a San Jose player slamming into the boards, passes to Marty. Marty passes it to Poots. Poots to Tater. Tater skates up the rink. Tater to Marty. Burns checks Marty, Marleau has the puck. Now Thirdy. Thirdy passes to Jack, who passes to Marty, who _scores_.

The Sharks make them pay for it. Jack has the puck again, and has just passed it off to Poots when someone slams into him, hitting him so hard against the boards that the guy sitting just beyond the glass drops his beer.

The ref blows his whistle, sends the player to the penalty box. Before he’s out of the box, Jack scores again. He can’t resist skating by the sin bin and raising his eyebrows and smirking.

It’s not quite a shutout. The Sharks get one past Snowy in the first few minutes of the third period, but Jack answers that goal with one of his own, plus a very satisfying check to steal the puck from the player who sent him crashing into the boards earlier.

The final score is 3-1. At the presser afterwards, Jack gives the short, brusque answers he’s known for, but there’s more energy behind it now. He’s keyed up, wired like he usually is after a win, after a satisfying game.

He emerges from press at almost ten pm, and everyone is waiting for him.

“That goal! That smirk! Jacko, that smirk was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Shitty says, launching himself into Jack’s arms.

Behind Jack, Poots wolf whistles. “Looks like you’d better be careful there, Bittle. Someone’s out to steal your man, now that we’re only steps away from the Cup.”

“Don’t you dare jinx this!” Marty yells, throwing a sweaty towel at Poots.

“Jack is safe from this idiot,” Lardo says, “The same cannot be said for me, though.”

“ _I am so proud of you_ ,” Shitty says again.

Jack, Bitty, Alicia, and Bob carpool back to the boys’ apartment. They all go to their respective bedrooms almost immediately—Bitty has to work in the morning, after all, and Jack has another cross-continental flight to look forward to.

“I am so proud of you, honey,” Bitty says as Jack closes their bedroom door, locking it with a satisfying _click_. “It looked like you were really—“

But whatever Bittle was going to say dies on his lips as Jack yanks him close and starts kissing him in a hungry, possessive way.

“I know you have to go to work in the morning, but _crisse_ , je veux—“

“Oh god yes,” Bitty says, yanking Jack down by his shirt collar. Jack lifts Bitty up and slams him against the wall when Bittle wraps his legs around his waist.

_Tabarnak_

...

Jack gets up with Bitty the next morning, and makes him breakfast and lunch. Jack drives Bittle to the train station, and they have a few minutes to kill, so Jack pulls into a parking spot and lets the car idle.

“How do you feel about tomorrow’s game?” Bittle asks.

“I think we can wrap it up. I want to prove we can win on San Jose ice,” Jack replies.

“Of course you can, and of course you want to,” Bitty says. “Just watch out for number nineteen, okay? His eyes were shooting daggers at you last night.”

“I will, I promise.”

Bitty glances at his watch. “Skype me once you’re in for the night. And for goodness sakes, do a better job at hiding the loaf of bread I made you.”

“Alright. And don’t worry, I’m pretty sure the entire team thinks touching your bread before game day is bad luck now.”

Bittle smiles, and leans forward over the center console. Jack meets him for a kiss, sweet and slow and perfect.

“Good luck, Jack. I love you,” Bitty says, giving Jack’s hand a quick squeeze before climbing out of the car. He dashes across the street and waves before he heads into the station.

Jack drives home. He has to be at the rink at nine to catch the team bus to the airport, so he has an hour or so to pack up his stuff. Not like he’ll need much—all of his gear gets packed up at the rink, and he’ll only be gone forty-eight hours, so he really just needs to pack the basics.

His dad is sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the paper, when Jack gets in.

“How’s the commute working out for Eric?” he asks.

“It’s not ideal, but once he gets into Boston he doesn’t have far to go. Plus he loves what he does, so that definitely helps,” Jack says, making his way to their bedroom, and leaving the door open so that his dad knows he can follow him.

“How are you feeling about the game tomorrow?” he asks next.

“Honestly? Pretty good. Motivated to wrap it up,” Jack replies, pulling his duffel bag out from under the bed. “We can win this, but we’re all getting tired.”

“Playoffs never stop getting draining. Even when you’ve got the momentum it’s exhausting.”

“Exactly,” Jack says, pulling some socks and underwear out of his drawer and placing them in the bag.

“You and Eric have any plans for the summer, after everything wraps up?”

“Not really. Bits hasn’t really accumulated any vacation days, so that rules out any big vacations. Maybe next year, though.”

“I think your mom always started to get sick of me during the off season. She used to make up errands for me to get me out of the house.”

“Haha I remember. Hopefully it’ll take Bits a bit longer to get sick of me.”

“As long as you don’t lay around on the couch like sad, bored puppy, he won’t,” Alicia says, appearing at the door with her own cup of coffee.

“If I looked like a puppy, does that at least mean I was cute?” Bob asks.

“Cute until you flooded the kitchen after insisting you could ‘fix’ the garbage disposal.”

“And have I ever tried fix any appliances again?”

“Hmm I guess not. But only because I gave you errands to run and you took the hint. Does anyone mind if I eat the last of that coffee cake Eric made?”

“No, go right ahead,” Jack says, and Bob nods in agreement.

Alicia leaves the room and Bob turns to Jack,

“Jack,” he begins, “no matter what happens in these next two games, you know I’m proud of you, right?”

“Of course, Papa, I do.”

“Good,” Bob says, stepping forward and pulling Jack into a tight hug. “Because I am. You’re a better player than I could ever hope to be. I may have had the talent, but I never had the drive, not in the way you do. I am so, so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Papa,” Jack says, hugging his father back.

The Zimmermann family leaves the condo together. Alicia and Bob rented a car, so they drop Jack off at the rink, and then heard on to the airport. Jack loads himself onto a bus, and gets ready for another trans-continental flight.

…

The Falconers’ plane lands in San Jose at four pm San Jose time, and the coaches make it clear that no one gets to leave to screw around. They get to the hotel, are told there’s going to be a team dinner at seven, and are left to their own devices until then, as long as they don’t leave the actual hotel. Jack heads down to the weight room with Poots, where they spot each other for a bit. Then there’s another shower and the team dinner.

Sometimes Jack forgets that most of the guys on his team are younger than 27, and that despite the hard work, dedication, and discipline they have, things can devolve into dick jokes pretty quickly. Still, it’s a fun dinner, and afterwards Tater excuses himself to go sit by the pool, giving Jack the perfect opportunity to skype Bitty.

Bitty answers on the second ring. He’s got his tablet set up in the kitchen, where it looks like he’s baking up a storm.

“I thought you were running instead of baking,” Jack chirps.

“Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, Holster, and Dex are all coming over tomorrow night to watch the game!” Bittle says cheerfully. “And I wouldn’t be a good host if I didn’t provide them food.”

“What are you making?”

“Apple pie, blueberry muffins, and sugar cookies,” Bitty says, holding up a cookie in each hand. They both have white icing, and Falconer-blue jersey numbers and names—the one in Bitty’s left hand says “Zimmermann,” the one in his right says “Mashkov.”

“Shitty and Lardo are bringing chips and salsa, Dex is brining a vegetable plate, and Ransom and Holster are bringing ‘all the alcohol,’” Bitty says, doing air quotes around Ransom and Holster’s offering. “Plus we’re going to order pizza.”

“Sounds like quite a spread. Our team dinner wasn’t nearly as good.”

They talk for another hour, describing their days. Bitty is currently trying to get some cookbook author to revise her ingredients because “focaccia dough is tricky and she can’t just leave everything so ambiguous.” He went out for lunch with Ransom because he was visiting an office in Bitty’s building, and he’s in the middle of describing the lobster roll he ate when we lets out a huge yawn.

“You should sleep, Bits. It’s past midnight there.”

“Mmm you’re right,” Bitty says, putting the last of the muffins into a Tupperware container and heading to the bedroom.

“Did you guys get rink time today, or not until tomorrow morning?” he asks, taking off his clothes and putting on his pajama pants and one of Jack’s t-shirts.

“Tomorrow morning. We’re all captives in the hotel for tonight.”

“You bunking with Tater again?” Bitty calls from the bathroom. Jack hears the tap run and the sounds of Bitty brushing his teeth.

“Yeah. He’s down by the pool with some puck bunnies I think. I should check on him if he isn’t back soon. There was one woman who was definitely eyeing him all through dinner.”

“Tater can take care of himself,” Bitty says, climbing into bed and taking the tablet with him.

“He can, but it could be our last game tomorrow. I don’t want him to be distracted. Or tired.”

“Well if it makes you feel better, go find him,” Bitty says, burrowing himself under the covers. “You guys’ll blow them all away tomorrow, mark my words.”

“As long as we’re not out all night we will. And I’ll feel better knowing you’ve gotten some sleep, too.”

“Alright sweetheart. G’night, then. If I don’t get to talk to you before tomorrow’s game, score some goals for me,” Bittle mumbles, already half asleep.

“I will. G’night, Bits, love you.”

“I love you, too.”

...

Jack scores three goals for Bitty, one in each period. The last comes seconds before the final buzzer. Before Jack knows it confetti is raining from the ceiling and hundreds of Falconer’s hats are being thrown down onto the ice. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Chowder, who looks like he’s about to cry. Tater slams into him, followed by Thirdy, Marty, Snowy, the rest of the team. They’ve just won _The Stanley Cup_. They’ve done it. They did it in six games.

Jack honestly feels like he could cry right now. Not because he’s sad, but because… well happy doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it. He’s spent his entire life working towards this moment, even that year when he didn’t know if it would be possible. And he’s just proven what everyone thought, what everyone was expecting, was wrong. He just proved all of these people wrong, but… But _they_ did it. And as he drowns in his teammates he finds he can’t actually be bothered to give a shit about what all these people have said about him. _They’ve_ done it, they’ve all worked hard and played hard and my god is victory sweet.

The only thing that could really make this moment better is if Bittle were here.

He isn’t here, but when Jack lifts the Stanley Cup over his head, he takes a minute to look into the camera focused on him, something he doesn’t usually do. He imagines Bittle watching at home, imagines Bittle saying “I told you so.” Pictures his face when he tells him the hat trick was for him. He pictures Bittle filling the space in their kitchen and their condo and their bed.

Jack pictures all of this, and smiles at Bittle. Even if the rest of the world sees that smile, Bittle will know what it means.

…

The next day, Jack gets home before Bittle again. Georgia had scheduled an early charter flight the morning after game six, just in case game seven came back to Providence. But the win means they leave San Jose early and arrive mid-afternoon. There’s an event at the airport, and Jack just feels like he’s above all of it.

The team takes the bus back to the rink, where they watch as the Cup is stowed safely in the GM’s office. In a few days there’s going to be a parade through Providence, and a ceremony where the Cup will be put in some high-tech display case for the summer, but for now it’s more quiet and intimate. Jack will get his cup day in a few weeks, and he’s not sure what he wants to do with it yet. He’ll have to talk to Bitty about it.

One of the team cars drops Jack off at his building, and like he thought, he’s made it home just before Bitty. He doesn’t know what to do, he still feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin. He rereads Bitty’s text from last night and today. Rereads Shitty’s. Lardo’s. The group chat. And Bitty really should be home right now. He’s late.

Jack sits on the couch, opens up the WWII book he’s been working his way through. Closes it again. And then he hears a key scraping in the lock, and he’s off the couch in a minute. Bittle walks through the door, messenger bag slung over one shoulder and holding a reusable grocery bag in the other. His face lights up as the he lets the door slam shut behind him and Jack picks him up twirls him around.

“Congratulations, Jack!” Bitty cries, sounding as excited as Jack feels. “I am _so proud_ of you, you—“

Jack doesn’t let him finish. He’s won the Stanley Cup. He’s kissing Bittle. Bittle lives here with him. Bittle lives in _their_ house. It’s everything Jack never thought he could have and never knew he wanted.

“ _Hi_ ,” he breathes, and he hopes Bittle understands him, because adequate words are truly beyond him now.

“ _Hi_ ,” Bittle says back, breathless and flushed and beautiful. Jack’s still holding him up, and for once Bitty isn’t squawking about setting him down.

“You… You’re late,”

Bittle rolls his eyes, but holds up the reusable shopping bag.

“I had to stop by Stop & Shop. I got you chicken tenders,” Bittle says, smiling and laughing a little about how ridiculous Jack is. “I figured since you won a Stanley Cup and all, you can have one cheat day.”

... 

The rest of the summer is, to put it simply, glorious. After the parade through Providence, which Jack doesn’t hate as much as he thought he would, he has a full month off. During that time he has his Cup Day. What he _wants_ is for Bittle to make crème brulee in it (he’s apparently figured out how), but the fans will expect pictures and there’s someone accompanying the Cup at all times, so that’s a no-go. 

Instead, in a nod to his alma mater, he and Bittle drive the Cup up to Samwell, invite Lardo, Shitty, Ransom, and Holster, and they sit by the Pond having a picnic on a hot New England afternoon. It’s quiet and low-key and everything Jack likes. He brings his camera, and even though he means to take photos of the cup, his camera, as always, seems to hone in on Bittle. Lardo picks up on this, and has Bittle switch places with her, so that he’s sitting next to the cup for the last part of the afternoon.

They establish an off-season routine. Jack wakes up with Bittle every morning, takes the shuttle to the train station with him, and then does a morning run around Providence. He has practice every couple of days, but they’re mostly optional for June and the first part of July. When he’s not practicing or running, he reads, or walks around Providence taking photos. In the evening, Jack has dinner waiting for Bittle when he gets home from work, and after they clean the kitchen they sit and do whatever the hell they want in their own home.

They even have the finances conversation. They’re not getting a joint bank account or anything, but Bittle decides that he’s going to pay for any and all utilities. He wanted to pay part of the mortgage, originally, and Jack told him he was welcome to, if Bittle agreed to joint ownership of the condo. Bittle huffed, and decided on utilities instead.

In early August, Bittle goes on his company-wide camping trip. They decide it’s best not to bring Jack along just yet—his face is all over New England, all over the continent, and as much as they’d like to, they can’t trust everyone on the company retreat just yet.

The day after Bittle gets back, his mom calls.

“Oh it was so much fun, Mama,” Bitty says, smiling as he peers into the oven to check the doneness of a pie he’s baking. “Danny made chili, and I made cornbread, and oh Mimi gave everyone a tutorial about how to get your marshmallow perfect for a s’more. I tell ya, that girl has it down to a science. Mama, I’m gonna put you on speaker while I finish up this pie,” Bittle says, setting his phone down on the counter and putting on some oven mitts.

“You talk about this Mimi a lot, and I saw you post the cutest pictures together on facebook! You two have a standing lunch date, don’t you?” Suzanne says, her voice a little garbled by the speaker setting.

“Oh she’s such a treat. And yeah we’ve been trying a new lunch place each week. She found this new little café up in Beacon Hill that does fruit tarts that are to _die_ for.”

“It’s a shame you live so far away, just imagine the trouble you two could get up to if you were in Boston all the time!”

“Oh, well Providence isn’t that far, and she lives up in Salem, so it’s not like she’s always in the city.”

“Have you found a place in Boston? September is only a couple of weeks away!”

“I’ve been lookin’, but everywhere in my price range is either just as far away as Providence or a total pig sty. I know I lived with a bunch of hockey jocks all through college, but everyone I’ve reached out to would do unholy things to my kitchen.

“And besides, I like living here. To tell ya the truth, I think Jack gets awful lonely. He needs someone around to make sure he does his laundry, and to water his plants while he’s on the road,” Bittle says, throwing Jack a huge wink.

“Well, I’m sure something’ll turn up eventually,” Suzanne says. “I gotta run, sweetie pie. It’s my book club tonight.”

“Tell all the ladies I said hi! And don’t let Sarah Grace Richards tell you her angel food cake is better. Yours is obviously the best.”

Suzanne laughs good naturedly. “Alright, Dickie. Love you, say hello to Jack for me.”

“Will do, Mama, bye!”

Bittle hangs up, and slices him and Jack two huge slices of pie. They’ve barely sat down on the couch to eat, though, when Bittle’s phone rings again.

“It’s Coach,” Bittle says, his brow furrowing. “Guess I better see what he wants.”

“Hey, Daddy,” Bittle says, answering the phone. “What’s up?”

Bittle doesn’t put his father on speaker, but Jack’s already wrapped around him, and Bittle doesn’t bother to move. Jack can hear everything.

“Son, you have a minute?” Coach Bittle asks.

“Sure? What do you want to talk about?”

“Your mama told me that you haven’t found your own place yet.”

“Oh, yeah. I still have some student loans to pay down, and everything in my price range in Boston so far has been too expensive or too gross. I’m sure something’ll turn up.”

“You have two and a half weeks, Junior. That’s not much time.”

“Oh, well, if I live here for awhile longer, it’s not the end of the world. Jack’s starting preseason soon, and he likes having someone here to look after things while he’s gone. Once I’ve saved up enough I’ll be able to find my own place.”

“Are you paying rent?”

“Jack won’t let me, but I pay for all the utilities and most of the groceries.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Bittle, instead of trying to fill it, waits.

“Junior,” Coach Bittle finally says, “You can’t just live with Jack Zimmermann for as long as you want.”

“Oh… I know. Just ‘til I can afford to live in Boston without having four roommates and no kitchen.”

“And you’re saving money by not paying rent now?”

“Well, yes.”

“Junior, a man pays his own way. You may not be living in your dream home right off the bat, but a man pays his own way.”

“It’s just ‘til some more of my student loans are paid down, and I—“

“You didn’t have to go to Samwell. You could have gone to Athens or Valdosta and had in-state tuition. You chose to go to Samwell. Your actions have consequences, Junior.”

“I… know, Coach.”

“You find somewhere to live sooner rather than later, okay?”

“I… yes, sir,” Bitty says.

And Jack’s heart breaks. Because in this moment, Bitty has drawn into himself. He looks smaller than he really is, and some of the light and warmth that Jack has so come to associate with Bitty is just… dimmed. It’s not gone, but it’s dim.

“Good. Call us in a few weeks to let us know how your search is going.”

“Will do. ‘Night, Coach,” Bitty says, hanging up before his father has a chance to say goodbye.

“Bits,” Jack says as Bittle fights back tears. “Bits, you know that doesn’t mean anything, right? Not… Not here, anyway.”

“I need to tell them,” Bittle sniffs. “It’s not fair to them if I don’t.”

“It’s not fair to _you_.”

“I _know_.”


	3. Chapter 3

They have a plan now.

Bitty is going to go home for Labor Day weekend. He and Jack will fly down together Saturday. It’s before the season starts, even before the preseason starts, so they have time. Only Bitty will go to Madison, though.

“You don’t have to come,” Bitty says, quiet and small into Jack’s chest as they lay in bed.

“Of course I do, Bits. You don’t have to be alone for this.”

“But if we both go, and I, you know, come out, it’s like they’re ganged up on.”

Jack doesn’t point out that it’s just as likely Bitty will actually be ganged up on.

“Then I’ll fly down with you and wait in Atlanta. If all goes well, I can come and we can all talk about it together.”

“You’re going to come down with me no matter what I say, so I won’t argue,” Bittle says.

So they fly down on Saturday. Bittle is renting a car—Jack doesn’t want him stranded in the middle of nowhere Georgia, should the worst happen. They check into a hotel downtown, and after Bitty drives off, Jack walks around the old Olympic park, taking photo after photo.

Bittle doesn’t call until past midnight.

“How’s it going?” Jack says.

“They can tell something’s off. It’s so awful, Jack,” Bittle says. He sounds nervous and almost on the verge of tears. Jack can picture him huddled under his covers, Señor Bun pulled close, the comforter muffling any sound.

Jack knows a pep talk isn’t exactly what Bittle needs right now. So Jack tries to reassure him that everything will be fine, that his parents love him, no matter what. Never mind that he doesn’t entirely believe it.

“I’m going to do it tomorrow,” Bittle says. “I promise.”

“You don’t have to promise me anything, Bits. You know what’s best for you.”

“I love you, Jack.”

“I love you too, Bits.”

…

Jack wakes up at six. He’s too nervous to fall back asleep. So he runs. He runs until the day is gross and hot and sticky and unbearable. At nine he gets a text from Bits saying the family is headed to church. At ten he steps into the shower.

He gets out at 10:22. No text from Bittle. No call.

At eleven, he texts Shitty, and the two of them try to figure out how long church services usually take.

At noon, he goes to one of the restaurants near the hotel and gets a sandwich. Still no messages.

At one, he sends a text to Bittle with a heart emoji.

At two, he’s about to find himself a car and drive to Madison. At ten after, he gets a text.

 **Bittle:** I’m headed back to Atlanta. I’ll see you in a few hours.

Jack calls immediately, but Bittle doesn’t pick up. He’s probably driving. Jack doesn’t know if Bittle should be driving right now, but he sends him a text anyway.

 **Me:** Alright. I’m at the hotel. See you soon.  <3

It’s about an hour and a half from Madison to Atlanta. Jack knows he should probably leave the room—he feels like a caged animal. But he doesn’t want to run the risk of missing Bittle. Jack knows that Bittle coming back now, without telling Jack anything about how it all went, isn’t anything but a bad sign, he just doesn’t know _how_ bad. He wants to find a car and meet Bittle on the highway. He wants to round up Shitty, Ransom, and Holster and go to Madison to intimidate a certain high school football coach. Hell, he could probably get Tater and some of his other teammates to come with him. He wants to call his mom, he wants to go to Madison to make this better somehow.

He wants to do _something_.

But he can’t. He can’t rent a car and risk passing Bits on the highway. He can’t magically get everyone in New England who loves Bittle here in the next hour to go intimidate a man who Jack hopes will be his father-in-law someday. He can’t call his mom until he knows more, until he knows what Bittle wants people to know. He can’t go to Madison because maybe the Bittles see him as the cause of all of this.

Still, if Suzanne and Richard are looking for someone to blame, Jack would rather they blame him than Bittle.

Not that they should be blaming anyone for anything.

At four, Jack finally hears Bittle’s keycard sliding into the lock. In an instant, Jack is on his feet, ready with his arms open as soon as Bittle walks into the room.

Bittle is still wearing his Sunday best—khaki pants, loafers, a blue and white gingham shirt he’d bought a couple weeks ago, and a red bow tie. He has his duffel bag over one shoulder, and it looks dangerously close to slipping off. He has dark rings around his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in a few nights. He doesn’t say a word, just lets his bag slip from his shoulder as he moves into Jack. Jack wraps his arms tightly around him, pulling him close. Bittle doesn’t nestle against Jack’s chest, doesn’t wrap his arms around Jack’s torso. He’s stiff, and he feels _brittle_.

Jack buries his face in Bittle’s hair, kisses him there. Kisses him again on his forehead, pulls him even closer. At this, Bittle lets out a small, unsteady sigh—like he can’t breathe, like he’s about to break.

“Oh _Bits_ ,” Jack says.

And that’s all it takes, apparently, because Bittle starts to cry.

That night finds them getting on the last plane to Providence. They have a layover in Baltimore, but it’s mercifully short, and the airport is so deserted that there’s not enough people around to notice Bittle’s red eyes.

They don’t get home until late. By then they’re both too tired to go into anything, They shower together so they smell less like recirculated air, and then they go to bed. Jack doesn’t take a hand off Bitty the entire time—Bits probably doesn’t actually need help standing up, but for the first time in the almost five years they’ve known each other, Jack finds Bittle lost for words.

As soon as they’re in bed, Bittle attaches himself to Jack like a barnacle, and eventually falls asleep while Jack traces soothing circles on his back.

Jack has always known that Bittle is smaller than him. Hell, he’s chirped him enough about it. When the people look at the two of them, without really knowing either of them, they probably assume that the 6’1”, professional hockey player Jack is the stronger of the two. And maybe he is, in some ways. He can do fifty pushups with Bittle on his back, get hit in the face with a puck and pick himself up, and he can co-captain a hockey team to a Stanley Cup victory.

But Bittle’s the one who quit football when he was seven and took up figure skating in the South. Bittle is the one who’s shouldered the weight of expectations and assumptions from his parents without having to take medication, without ever overdosing. Bittle’s the one who played college hockey and was never afraid to be exactly who he was. Bittle’s the one who was locked in a closet overnight by his middle school football team, and who somehow doesn’t hate them. Bittle’s the one who waltzed onto the Samwell Men’s Hockey team and made the Haus a home and made the team a family. Bittle’s the one who worked and worked to get through his checking block. Bittle’s the one who Jack let down, who because of Jack’s carelessness got a concussion, but who still voted for Jack to be captain.

Bittle’s the one who came out to his parents, rather than use the safety of white lies and distance to stay hidden. Bittle is the one who risked so much just so that he could live with Jack and not have to lie about it.

Of the two of them, Bittle’s the stronger one, really.

The morning comes sooner than Jack would like. He didn’t get much sleep, but it looks like he got more than Bittle, whose eyes are wide open. There are still dark circles under his eyes, but they look slightly less red.

“Good morning,” Jack says, wrapping his free arm around Bitty.

“You never asked me what happened,” Bitty says, but he moves in closer to Jack.

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” Jack says.

“I think I’m ready, now.”

“Okay.”

And so Jack gets the whole story, from the moment Bittle walked in the door to the moment he left. It started off easy enough, but the mood changed when Coach asked him why Bittle wasn’t spending that weekend moving in.

“I gave kind of an evasive answer,” Bittle admits. “I should have just come out and said it then, but I wasn’t ready.”

Jack nods and waits for Bitty to go on.

“Well, nothing much happened the rest of Saturday, but everything felt off. Mama and I made a cobbler but we both kept dropping things,” Bitty says. Jack can hear the tears threatening to come back.

“So after we got home from church on Sunday, I asked if we all could sit down, ‘cause I had something to tell them. And so I… I told them I was going to tell them why I wasn’t moving to Boston.”

“I said ‘I moved in with Jack because we’ve been together for almost two years.’ And then Mama was confused by what I meant by ‘together’ and I told her we’d been dating and that we love each other.”

“And what did she say?”

“She didn’t say anything at first. Coach actually told me I was probably just confused. That really close bonds form between teammates all the time, and since I hadn’t really done team sports until college, I just didn’t know.”

“That’s bullshit, Bits.”

“I know, I know. And I told him that I knew I was in love with you, and that it was different than the bond I have with, say, Ransom or Holster or Shitty. And then he asked me if I was sure _you_ felt that way, and that I wasn’t just _imagining_ something I wanted to happen. So I told them about uh, about how we got together at your graduation.”

“I guess I was hoping that Mama would think it was cute, or that it would prove to Coach… I don’t know. But Coach didn’t say anything for a bit after that. And then my mama said ‘So, does this mean that you’re, that you’re-‘ like she couldn’t get the words out of her mouth,” Bitty says, his voice warbling now. He takes a deep breath, and kneads his fingers into Bitty’s back in a way he hopes is comforting.

“So I told her. I said it. I told them I was gay and that I’d known I was gay since middle school.”

“I am so proud of you, Bits.”

“Well, my mother isn’t. She was crying. And Coach… he wasn’t saying anything.”

Bitty takes another deep breath.

“Do you want to take a break? We can if you want.”

“No. No I need to finish this. I’ll feel better once I get it all out,” Bittle says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“So they didn’t say anything for a long time. And I finally beg them to say something, and my mom. Oh god. She said, she said ‘Well, Dickie. It’s one thing when you see other people… When other people are that way. But your own child, your only baby, it’s different.’”

“Oh Bits,” Jack says. And he knows his heart isn’t hurting nearly as much as Bittle’s must be, but hearing what Suzanne has told her only son, _Bits_ , just feels like an absolute punch to the gut.

“I tried to tell them that I hoped it wouldn’t change anything. I’m still me, I still love them, but they just didn’t say anything. My mama was crying, but I was the one who was making her cry, so I couldn’t _do_ anything about it, and then Coach just… he just _left_.”

“He left? Like, left the room or left the house or?”

“He left the house. He drove off in his pickup truck and I still haven’t heard from him.”

“What about your mom?”

“She didn’t say anything until I left. After it… after it was clear Coach was gonna be gone for awhile I just went upstairs and got my bag. And she went into her bedroom. And I knocked on her door and she didn’t answer the first few times, until I told her that I guess I was going to go.”

“She finally opened the door, but she wouldn’t come out of her room. And she said that I shouldn’t tell my moomaw because she didn’t think her heart could take it and she wished me a safe flight and then—“

And now the tears are coming again. Bittle’s shaking all over with them, burying his face into Jack’s t-shirt and sobbing. Jack just pulls Bitty closer, and hopes he doesn’t notice the tears running down Jack’s own cheeks. Jack wants to be strong for Bittle, but he’s quickly realizing the only thing that can really break him now is seeing Bittle like this. Bittle hurt and sobbing and almost broken.

After what seems like forever, but is really probably only a few minutes, Bittle takes a few shaking, slow breaths, and moves away from Jack just enough to be able to look up at him.

“I am so sorry, Bits,” Jack says. It’s totally inadequate and not nearly as much as he wants to say, but thankfully, Bittle usually understands.

“It had to happen eventually,” Bittle says, “I just… I knew they wouldn’t be rushing out to buy rainbow flags or anything, but I thought—I hoped that I’d at least leave with them talking to me?”

“I know, Bits. And they’ll come around. It may take time, and it doesn’t make it hurt any less now, but they’ll get there.”

“That’s not all you want to say,” Bittle sniffs.

“…. It isn’t. But what I want to say isn’t going to be helpful, or make you feel any better.”

“Well, I’m not going to be better for a bit. Please just… Just tell me.”

Jack takes a breath, looks at Bitty, decides he’s serious, and goes for it.

“I’m so sad, Bits. I’m sad and I’m angry because you are their son, and you went to so much trouble to try and make all of this as comfortable and easy for them as possible. And you are so, so much. You’re everything, and they’re going to let this one part of you dominate everything else.”

“Are you saying I’m better off without them?”

“No! No that’s not… They’ll come around, and I _want_ them to come around. But when they do, they should be the ones asking for your forgiveness, not the other way around.”

Jack hopes that makes sense. Because he does want the Bittles to be part of Bits’ life, of their life. But he doesn’t want them if they’re going to make Bittle feel guilty about who he is.

“Thanks, honey,” Bittle says, a little steadier now. “You were right, it doesn’t help right now. But it will.”

Jack plants a kiss on the top of Bittle’s head, and pulls him closer.

...

Bittle insists on going into work the next day, despite his emotional distress. Sure, it’s less obvious now, but he still looks tired and worn in a way Jack hasn’t seen, well, ever.

But Jack goes to practice. Pre season will start in just over two weeks, so daily practices have started up again. Marty’s just back from Costa Rica with an awkward tan line, which Thirdy chirps him mercilessly for. There are also a few rookies the Falcs picked up in the draft: Wilson Conners, a D-Man who is almost as hulking as Tater, and Vladimir Alaininov, who almost everyone has already started to call “Dracky.”

At the end of the practice, Marty informs Jack that he and Bittle are coming to Bennie’s fourth birthday next weekend, and begs Jack to ask Bittle to bring something edible.

“Bennie wants a ‘Paw Patrol’ cake, which means we’re getting some awful sheet cake from the grocery store,” Marty says, “I can’t ask anyone over ten to willingly eat that.”

Jack says that work has been a little crazy for Bittle lately, so he may not have the time. Marty, who’s face clearly shows he knows something else is up, doesn’t push.

Home before Bitty again, Jack starts dicing vegetables for the healthy cassoulet he and Bitty both like so much. He’s just about got everything prepped when his mom calls.

“Bonjour, Maman,” Jack says, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

“Is everything okay?” Alicia immediately begins, “You texted to say you were going down to Georgia for Labor Day to talk to the Bittles, but—“

“I’m sorry, Mom. It… It didn’t go like we had hoped.”

“I was afraid that’s what happened when I didn’t hear from you. Why? What happened?”

“We left Sunday night, and we haven’t heard from the Bittles since.”

“Oh, Jack. Oh poor Eric. That poor boy. How is he doing?”

“He’s… been better. Maman, Sunday and yesterday he… How could they _do_ that?”

“I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t know.”

Jack and his mom are both silent for a moment.

“He knows we love him, right? That he can come to us if he needs anything?” she finally says.

“Yeah, I’ve been telling him that since I told you and Dad about us.”

“But that still doesn’t really help, does it? He has so many people in his corner, but not the two people who should always be there.”

“Exactly. And I think they’ll come around, or, at least, Suzanne will. It’s just going to take time.”

“You’re right. Is Eric home right now?”

“No, but he will be in an hour or so.”

“I’ll call tomorrow night with a baking question or something,”

"That’s a good idea, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

“Alright. Let us know if you need anything, okay?”

“Will do. Bye, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you too, Jack. Give our love to Eric.”

Five minutes later, Jack gets a text from his dad.

 **Papa** : Say the word and your Uncle Mario and I will fly down to Georgia intimidate a certain high school football coach.

 **Papa** : American football is stupid, anyway

 **Me** : Thanks, Papa. But I don’t think that’ll solve this.

 **Papa** : I know it won’t, but it’ll make me feel better

Jack gets a notification from another message.

 **Lardo** : I took Bitty out to lunch and I’m going to take the train home with him.

 **Me** : Thank you. I was going to ask if you and Shitty wanted to come down sometime this week.

 **Lardo** : I got you. Bits knows we’re in his corner, but it’s worth reminding him.

 **Me** : Thanks, Lardo.

Lardo and Bitty both walk through the door just as Jack is taking the cassoulet out of the oven.

“You’ve trained this boy right, Bits,” Lardo says, smiling as she playfully punches Bitty on the arm.

“We’ve come so far from the Sriracha cupboard,” Bitty replies, walking over to Jack in the kitchen. He stands on his toes to give Jack a kiss on the cheek, and Jack automatically leans down to make it easier for him.

“You have practice today?” Lardo asks.

“Yeah,” Jack says, looking at Bitty as he hangs his messenger bag up. He still looks tired, but he doesn’t look like he’s been crying. “What did you guys get up to today?”

“I met Bits out for lunch in Chinatown, and when I heard you were cooking I decided I just had to come down and see this for myself.”

“Well, hopefully I won’t disappoint. How was work, Bits?” Jack asks, getting plates out of the cabinet and setting the table.

“Oh, it was fine. Just a normal day,” Bitty says, coming up to Jack and sagging against him. Jack wraps him up in a hug, and Lardo moves around them to finish setting the table.

“How are you doing?” Jack asks, quietly. It’s not that he cares if Lardo can hear them or not, but there’s no need to be loud when Bits is curled up into him like this.

“Still not good, but I’ll get there.”

“Take as long as you need, Bits. We’re all here for you.”

Jack assumes Bittle and Lardo have already discussed what happened over the long weekend, so they don’t talk about it over dinner. Neither Jack nor Lardo chirp Bittle for constantly checking his phone, even though it breaks Jack’s heart. Suzanne will probably call, eventually, but probably not anytime soon.

On Wednesday, Alicia calls Bittle. She asks Bittle for help on a sticky buns recipe she “just can’t get quite right,” and the two talk for awhile. When the call is done, Bittle really smiles for the first time since Saturday.

“Your mom is a gem, you know that?” Bittle asks.

“Oh I do. What did she want her to help you with?”

Bittle launches into the problems Alicia was having, and if he knows that Alicia probably butchered the sticky buns just to get Bittle’s help, he doesn’t let on.

On Friday night, Bittle bakes an “adult” cake for Bennie’s birthday party. Along with the cake, they get Bennie some new fake food for his play kitchen. The party actually turns into a lot of fun, not least because the adults and the kids are fighting over who gets more of Bitty’s attention.

On Sunday, Bittle stops checking his phone.

...

“Jack, that last goal was _amazing_ ,” Bittle says, climbing into the passenger side of the car. It’s a crisp, November Friday night, and Jack’s just gotten out of the press pool after a game against the Flyers. He scored two goals that night, and got a _clutch_ assist to Poots. They ended the game 4-2, and everyone on the team is happy.

“We were really connecting with the puck tonight. It was kind of electric,” Jack admits, smiling to himself and starting up the car.

“Electric, huh?” Bitty says, “Would you say there were sparks?”

“Definite sparks.”

“It’s nice to see you connecting with the puck so well. And that stick handling…”

“I’d like to uh, connect with _you_ ,” Jack says, and he nearly laughs at himself at how bad it sounds.

Bittle laughs for him, but only a little. “You’re getting better, sweetpea, though I would have gone for something with ‘stick handling.’”

“I guess you’re just going to have to show me what you mean,” Jack says, leering at Bittle, because they’re at a red light and why not?

By the time they reach the condo, they’ve got their hands all over each other. Bittle practically pushes Jack into the elevator, cornering him and pulling him down by his necktie. They reach their floor, Jack keeping a hand on Bittle’s ass as they walk down the hall, as Bittle fumbles with the keys, and then they’re inside and Jack practically slams Bittle against the door, and—

And then Bittle’s cell phone rings.

“Who the hell is callin’ me at this time of night?” Bittle says, pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket. He looks like he going to mute it, but then he takes a look at the screen.

“It’s… It’s my mom,” he says.

Jack and Bittle stare at each other in silence as the phone rings. Slowly, Bittle pulls the phone up to his ear, and accepts the call.

“…Hello?” he says, tentative and shaky.

Jack can’t quite make out what’s being said at the other end of the line, either because he can’t focus, or because Suzanne is talking very, very quietly. Maybe both. He backs away from Bittle, but doesn’t stop touching him. Guides him over to the couch, pulls him down when Jack sits. Bittle nestles himself between Jack’s legs, back to Jack’s chest.

“Yes, mama, I’m home. Yeah, I went to Jack’s game, I usually go to weekend home games. Yes, that last goal was spectacular.”

Suzanne says something else.

“I’ve missed talking to you too, Mama.”

“Yeah, I do, too.”

“Yeah. Two and a half years, now.”

“Well, I think you might be able to understand why I didn’t.”

“I want you in my life too, mama. But I’m not going to hide who I am anymore. That isn’t fair to anyone, especially me.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re going to Bob and Alicia’s for Christmas, and we’re hosting Thanksgiving for—“

“You want to come up here?” Bittle asks, looking up at Jack. Jack mouths “Up to you,” and Bittle starts talking again.

“Hang on, let me look and see what our weekends are like,” Bittle says, motioning to Jack. Jack pulls out his own phone, and pulls up the google calendar he and Bittle share. He scrolls through, and finds a weekend where he only has a home game. He gives the phone to Bittle.

“How about the first weekend of December?” Bittle says.

“Okay. Sounds good. Let me know what flight you’re on and we’ll pick you up at the airport.

“Love you too, Mama,” Bittle says, hanging up.

“I could only hear your half of the conversation,” says Jacks, “But it sounds like they’re coming to visit?”

“ _She_ is. Coach is… Mama says he’s not ready yet.”

“Well, it’s something, right?” Jack says, running his hands up and down Bittle’s arms.

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

…

Jack loves Bittle. Jack loves Bittle more than anyone or anything in the world, including hockey. Jack loves Bittle, which is why he’s picking up Suzanne Bittle at TF Green Airport, by himself, because Bittle is at work.

It’s going to be the most awkward car ride ever.

Jack pulls into the cell phone lot just as Suzanne’s plane lands, and a few minutes later he drives over to the pickup zone. Suzanne is waiting, and she looks cold and slightly miserable. 

Jack is able to pull up right in front of her, and he hops out of the car to help her with her bag.

“Hi, Suzanne,” he hopes he can still call her Suzanne, “Here, let me take your bag.”

“Oh, thank you, Jack,” she says, and Jack takes her small suitcase and puts it in the trunk while Suzanne climbs in the passenger seat of the car.

“You can turn up the heat, if you want,” Jack says, climbing back into the car.

“Thank you, Jack.”

When Jack came to Madison two years ago to visit, Suzanne was bubbly—outgoing, chatty, and welcoming. Jack honestly doesn’t know what to do with this Suzanne. She’s too restrained and quiet, and Jack doesn’t know her well enough to know what she might be thinking.

“Bits should be home around six thirty,” Jack says as they merge onto the highway, simply to have something to say. “I usually make dinner on nights I don’t have a game.”

“That’s sweet of you. What do you usually make?”

“I can’t cook the way Bits can, but we’ve come up with a lot of recipes that fit my diet plan over the years. High on protein and all that.” What the fuck is he even _saying_?

“What will you make tonight?”

“I have some chicken that needs to be used. So something with that?”

Suzanne just nods, and looks out the window. It’s getting dark, so there’s not much to see.

“Do you like Providence?” she finally asks when she realizes she’s not going to be able to see much.

“I do. The team is great, and the city is a nice size.”

“Winters can’t be much better than Samwell, even if it is further south.”

“Haha no. But I grew up in Montreal… Bittle has a harder time with the cold than I do.”

“Poor Dickie. I always hoped he’d come back down to Georgia after graduation. Atlanta would have been nice for him, I think.”

Jack chooses not to comment on this, because he doesn’t really know what to say. Luckily, they pull up to his and Bittle’s building, so he doesn’t have to say anything.

“This is… This is where you live?” Suzanne asks as the garage door opens in front of them.

“One of the benefits of the NHL, I guess,” Jack says, driving down another level and pulling into his usual spot. He shuts off the car, and gets Suzanne’s bag from the trunk.

“This way,” he says, motioning over to the elevators.

“What floor do you live on?” Suzanne asks.

“We live on the twelfth floor,” Jack says. “Although, I guess the condo is on the twelfth and thirteenth floors?”

Suzanne doesn’t reply.

Once they’ve gotten to the twelfth floor, Jack leads the way down the hall to their condo. Key in lock, push door open, walk in. Jack carries Suzanne’s bag up the stairs, and stops in the living room when she does.

“This is the cleanest bachelor pad I’ve ever seen! When I first started dating Richard, oh, you would not believe—“

“It was a little messier when I was living here by myself, but I always cleaned up before Bits came over,” Jack says, “And you should have seen him before my parents came to stay back in May. I practically had to force him to let me help,” Jack replies, smiling to himself.

“So your parents… They know? About you and Dickie?”

“Yes,” says Jack, “My parents know that I date men and women, so I told them about me and Bits after we’d been dating for a few months.”

“Oh.”

The two of them stand in silence for a moment.

“I’ll just... I’ll just show you your room, eh?” Jack finally says. Suzanne nods, and Jack leads her down the hallway.

“Here you go,” he says, rolling her suitcase into the larger guest room. “Your bathroom’s just next door. Let me know if you need anything?”

“Thank you, Jack.”

Jack backs out of the room, and Suzanne starts to unpack. She doesn’t close the door, which Jack guesses is a good sign? He doesn’t know.

He heads back towards the kitchen, and texts Bittle while he’s taking the chicken out of the refrigerator.

 **Me** : Your mom and I just got home. She’s unpacking and I’m starting dinner.

 **Bits** : How is she?

 **Bits** : How are you?

 **Me** : I’m fine. I think your mom will be fine once you two talk.

 **Bits** : I should be home soon. You making the chicken and mushrooms for dinner?

 **Me** : Yeah. See you soon, Bits

 **Me** : I love you

 **Bits** : Love you too, Jack.

And now Jack’s stuck. Because in these kinds of situations, he’s so used to texting Bitty. Especially when it comes to translating Southern United States mannerisms. But he can’t. He briefly thinks about texting Shitty, but that probably won’t help.

 **Me** : Lardo

 **Me** : I’m alone with Suzanne and I’m confused

 **Lardo** : What did she say? Or do?

 **Me** : I’m not sure? She said she thought Atlanta would have been good for Bits

 **Me** : And I don’t know how to describe it, but she got weird when she found out my parents knew

 **Lardo** : Jack, you need to be prepared for some passive aggressive southern bull

 **Lardo** : If you can take a puck to the chin and skate off the ice, then you can handle this

 **Me** : Thanks, Lards

 **Lardo** : Anytime.

Jack gets to working on dinner. He gets a pot of brown rice going, then rubs the chicken down with olive oil, paprika, and a lot of salt and pepper, then pops it in the oven with some mushrooms and sliced onions. He’s in the middle of deciding on a salad versus green beans when Suzanne appears back in the kitchen.

“Anything I can do to help?” she asks as Jack finally decides on green beans.

“Thanks, but I think I’ve got it. Do you want some wine or some water or anything?”

“Do you have a white?” Suzanne asks after a moment.

“I think we have a open bottle,” Jack says, opening up the fridge and finding a half-empty bottle. He pours Suzanne a glass, and gets a glass of water for himself.

Jack gets busy blanching the green beans while Suzanne takes a seat at the breakfast bar.

“This is a lovely kitchen,” she comments.

“Yeah. We get a lot of use out of it,” Jack says.

“Do you always make dinner?”

“Just on nights where I get home before Bittle. His commute isn’t that bad, but he still gets home late enough that starting dinner would be a hassle.”

“But he’s still baking?”

“When is he ever not? The team nutritionist kind of hates him, actually. I bring the stuff he makes to work half the time and my teammates make it all disappear in minutes.”

“Do they think you make all of it?”

“Uh… no. They know Bittle makes it.”

“They know about Eric?”

“They know about him? Yeah. They also know him, so…”

And Bittle’s ears must have been ringing, because at that moment Jack hears the door open downstairs.

“That’s him, now,” Jack says. Suzanne turns in her seat towards the steps, then stands up. Jack hears Eric taking off his coat, opening the door to hang it in the closet. The door shuts, and the next moment he hears Bittle walking up the steps, and then Bittle is standing there.

Bittle has his poker face on, that carefully blank and unassuming expression Jack got to know well that Fourth of July in Madison over two years ago. He hates Suzanne, just for a moment, because he hates that Bittle feels the need to put that face on in his own damn house.

“Dickie…” Suzanne begins.

“Hi, Mama,” Bittle replies. Then they both just stand there, both wanting the other to make the first move.

If they won’t move, Jack will.

“Hey, Bits,” he says, standing over the stove. He can’t leave the green beans just now, but he’s hoping that Bits will come over, kiss him on the cheek, and make some comment about his cooking skills, just like he always does. “How was work today?”

It works. Jack hears Bittle walk over to him, and Jack leans down into the kiss, a swift peck on the cheek.

“You’re getting better at this,” Bittle says.

“Well, I had a really good teacher,” replies Jack, smiling.

“We’ll have to work on your pie lattices again soon.”

“You haven’t let me near lattice work in over two years.”

“Well you’ve made me dinner most weeknights since I moved in, so you’ve nearly worked your way back into my good graces.”

“Just nearly? Do I need to buy you another Dutch oven?”

“ _No_. But oh, Mama, this boy,” Bittle says, whipping around, “I didn’t tell you before, but he got me a Le Creuset _Dutch oven_ as a graduation present. We’ll have to make beef bourguignon before you leave because it is a revelation.”

During this speech, Bittle has whipped around to face Suzanne, chatting like he always does. For a few moments, his shoulders are relaxed, his poker face is gone, and he looks like Bittle.

And then he finishes talking. Suzanne doesn’t respond immediately, and Bittle looks like he’s going to deflate.

But then she smiles—it’s not a big smile, or the smile Bittle is probably used to seeing, but it is genuine.

“What color do y’all have?” she asks.

…

Jack has to leave early the next morning. His game starts at 1:30 this afternoon, so he has to get to the rink early for warmup. He hopes that Bits and Suzanne will use the time alone together to talk. They’re coming to the game later, so that’s something.

In the dressing room, getting ready for practice, Marty comes over and sits by Jack,

“What’s up, kiddo?” he asks in Québécois, “You’ve got your ‘I’m mildly concerned, but I won’t let it affect my game’ face on.’”

“I have a face like that?”

“It is a face I am extremely familiar with. Ask Eric, I’m sure he’ll tell you you’ve always had it. What’s up?”

If Marty thinks something’s bothering him, then he’s probably not going to let up until he figures out what it is, one way or another.

“Bittle’s mom is visiting,” Jack says. Marty is still looking at him expectantly.

“She and Bittle’s dad weren’t exactly supportive when he told them about us.”

Marty’s brow furrows. “Not supportive as in ‘We’ve heard the stories about pro athletes’ or ‘We don’t like the fact that our son is dating another man’ not supportive’?”

“The second one. They didn’t know, before, that Bittle is gay.”

“So that’s why the two of you avoided talking about where you went over Labor Day Weekend?”

“Yeah.” Bless Sebastian St. Martin.

“So Mrs. Bittle is coming up here because?”

“She loves her son. She misses her son.”

“And his dad isn’t here.”

“No. Suzanne said that Coach… Mr. Bittle needed more time.”

“Coach?”

“He’s the high school football coach in town,” says Jack.

Marty lets out a soft whistle.

“Bittle is definitely not one of those football types.”

“Yeah. Definitely not.”

They sit in silence for a few moments. Jack thanks his lucky stars that Marty never really asks unnecessary questions—he never pries.

“Are they coming to the game today? Bittle and his mom?”

“They said they would. I left earlier than usual to give them some time alone to talk.”

“I am going to text Gabby,” Marty begins, “Not that she wouldn’t sit with Eric anyway, but she’ll sit with him and make sure he enjoys the game, okay? And cut through any bullshit his mom may give. Gabby’s good at that.”

“She is,” Jack acknowledges, “And Suzanne went through a phase where she watched _all_ of the Falconers Face-Offs.”

“Oh, God. Does she have a crush on Tater?”

“No. She kind of has a crush on you… And Thirdy.”

“Are you asking me and Thirdy to use our not inconsiderable charms to get a woman fifteen years older than us to be happy for her does-not-deserve-this-bullshit son?”

“You don’t have to do too much, just—“

“Kiddo, you are basically asking us to tell Eric’s mom how great he is. _Our time has finally come_.”

…

After Marty ropes in Thirdy on the plan (and half the team. And half of the team’s wives and girlfriends), Jack texts Bittle, because he hasn’t heard from him since he left earlier this morning.

 **Me** : How’re things going? You okay?

It’s a few minutes before Bittle replies.

 **Bittle** : Well things aren’t awful. We’ve talked a lot. And we’re headed out to your game soon!

 **Me** : If you guys aren’t finished you don’t have to come.

 **Bittle** : I think we’ll both need a break.

 **Me** : Alright, I’ll look for you in your usual spot. Love you

 **Bittle** : Love you too, Jack <3

When Jack and the rest of the team finally skate out onto the ice for the game, Jack’s eyes immediately dart up to where Bittle usually sits. He’s there, decked out in Falconer’s gear and sitting in between Gabby and Suzanne. On Suzanne’s other side is Carrie, and next to her is Snowy’s girlfriend, Karen. They wave to their respective partners as they skate out onto the ice.

They’re playing the Redwings today, and the Falconers defeat them easily, 5-0. They shower, change, do the usual press rigmarole, and are finally released.

“Okay, so here’s how we’re going to do this,” Thirdy says, coming up to Jack as he gathers his things. “Gabby and Carrie are standing with Suzanne and Eric right now. The three of us are going to come out together, because we’re the captains, and because we’re all obviously the best looking.”

“Snowy is our warm-up act. He’s going to go out first, say hi to Eric, get introduced to his mother, because our Eric Bittle is a Southern gentleman and always polite. And then when he and Karen leave, the three of us will come out, and we’ll get the undeserving to see just how much we all like Eric and accept you and him and all that jazz.”

“Are you done yet?” Marty asks from the other side of the dressing room, “I’d like to get home before my babysitter has to order a pizza.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

So the three of them emerge from the locker rooms, and standing by the players’ entrance are Bittle, Suzanne, Gabby, and Carrie.

“Hi, _mon cher_!” Gabby calls, drawing Suzanne’s attention to Marty.

“Hey, Gabs,” Marty leaning down to meet her kiss. “Hi Eric, Carrie, and, sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced?” he says, looking at Suzanne, who starts blushing faintly.

“Oh, Marty, this is my mama, Suzanne Bittle,” Bittle says, and Jack can tell that he’s clearly trying not to laugh.

“Nice to finally meet another Bittle,” Marty says, extending his hand. Suzanne reaches her own hand out and shakes his.

“It’s nice to meet you, to,” Suzanne says, clearly star struck.

“And I’m Thirdy, nice to meet you,” Thirdy says, taking Suzanne’s hand when Marty is done. “Are you the source of that pecan pie Eric makes? I keep trying to get him to give me the recipe but every time he tells me it’s a family secret.”

“Oh! Well, I can say that I gave him the original recipe, but he’s improved on it since then.”

“Can _you_ give me the recipe?”

Suzanne laughs. “Family secret, remember?”

“So can you give Jack the recipe, and then he can give it to me? I mean, we’re on the same hockey team, so we’re _basically_ family.”

“It’s blood or marriage, I’m afraid,” Suzanne replies.

“Dang it. Jack, get on that. In the meantime, Eric, you’re making the pecan for me and Carrie’s holiday party, right?”

“Of course!” Bittle says, a short laugh escaping him, “And I’ll bake some cookies, too.”

“Excellent.”

Their group breaks up after that. As soon as Jack, Bittle, and Suzanne are in the car, though, Suzanne starts gushing.

“Marty and Thirdy are so _tall_ ,” she says from the backseat. “In the faceoff videos they look shorter because of how often they’re with Mashokov, but they’re _tall_.”

“They are very tall, mama,” Bittle says, smiling as he drives out of the parking lot.

“And Thirdy likes our pecan pie recipe! What else have you made the team, Dickie?”

“Well, I’ve been baking for them for over two years now, so almost everything.”

“Marty says Bittle’s blueberry cobbler causes our next opponents to get injured just before the games. It happened with Ottawa and Carolina last year,” adds Jack.

“And I have steadfastly refused to make it since Carolina. I don’t want to mess with that kind of power,” Bitty says.

The ice seems to have been broken, and the three chat amicably about baked goods all the way home. For dinner, Bittle and Suzanne use the Dutch oven to make beef bourguignon, and while that’s cooking they “whip up” some lemon bars from Moomaw’s old recipe.

They all go to bed early that night, because they’re all tired, physically and emotionally. Locking their bedroom door behind them, Jack and Bitty shower together, and then fall into bed.

“So, how did it go this morning?” Jack asks. If Bittle had cried earlier, there’s no sign of it now.

“Well, I got to talk about when I first knew I was gay, and I guess that explained a lot,” Bittle says quietly. “She kept asking me if I was sure, which wasn’t helpful or fun, but at least she’s talking to me?’

“Mm-hmm,” Jack says.

“She feels kind of guilty. For a lot of things. She still kind of thinks it’s something she or Coach did which… no, it wasn’t. It’s just who I am. And it’s going to take her awhile for her to really accept it, but she’ll get there, probably.

“And she also feels guilty for me not feeling like I could tell her sooner.”

“Well, considering how—“

“I know, I know. But there’s that. And then I spent another fifteen minutes assuring her that grandchildren are still a strong possibility, even if they are adopted.”

“Did she say anything about your dad?”

“Yes. Basically the same thing she said a couple of weeks ago. He’ll come around, he just needs more time.”

“Just so you know, you have about thirty hockey players ready to fly down to Georgia to intimidate his football team,” Jack adds, probably a little insensitively.

“Speaking of hockey players, what was that at the game today?” Bittle asks, smiling. “Gabby and Carrie were extra chatty today, and even Karen talked quite a bit. And then that whole bit after the game… Sweetheart, was that choreographed?” Bittle says, really smiling now.

“Apparently I had some sort of face that showed something was bothering me before the game. I told Marty your mom was here to visit, and he and Thirdy organized the rest,” Jack admits, smiling back at Bittle. “I may have mentioned your mom’s crushes on Marty and Thirdy.”

“Jack Zimmerman, you did not!” cries Bitty, playfully swatting him with a pillow. Jack grabs the pillow, holds it out of Bittle’s reach, and goes in to kiss him when he pouts.

“To be fair,” he says when he finally pulls away, “Thirdy was serious about getting that pie recipe. He’s been bugging me about it for ages.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” Bittle says, turning on his side and pushing his back into Jack’s stomach. Jack drapes an arm over him, and nuzzles his face into the back of Bittle’s neck. “Well, you heard what my mama said. Blood or marriage.”

“Good thing I’m working on at least one of those ins, right?”

“Yeah,” Bittle says, his voice soft with affection and coming sleep. “Just as soon as you master lattice work, honey.”

“I’ll get to practicing, then,” Jack says, placing a kiss behind Bitty’s ear, and finally closing his own eyes to sleep.

They still have a lot of work ahead of them—there’s Coach Bittle to win over, and then the rest of the world, really. But Bittle is worth it, he’s worth all of this and so much more. And right now, between the two of them, Jack thinks they can conquer anything.

 

_Epilogue—Three Years Later_

“Everything’s all set, we just need you two to sign where we’ve marked,” Lauren says, handing Jack and Bittle the forms.

“I hope this wasn’t too much trouble for y’all,” says Bittle, taking the pen Lauren hands him and signing his curvy, graceful signature on the places Lauren has marked.

“No trouble at all, Mr. Bittle. It’s always a little complicated handling the dual-citizen codes, but nothing we here at Arnison & Harris can’t handle.”

“Was that really the most complicated part?” Bittle says, handing the forms off to Jack, who takes the pen and starts affixing his well-known signature to where Lauren has marked.

“Oh yes. Updating your properties so that you’re listed as co-owners and filing a married filing jointly return isn’t all that complicated. We do it all the time.”

“Here you go,” Jack says, sliding the tax forms back across the desk to Lauren. She flips through, and makes sure they’ve initialed and signed in all the right places.

“Everything’s all set, Mr. Bittle and Mr. Zimmermann. Or are you going by Zimmermann-Bittle now?”

“Legally, yes, but it’s kind of a mouthful. Our future children are going to _hate_ us,” Bittle says, standing up and pulling on his coat. It’s March in Providence, and the weather’s still a bit chilly.

“We’re just sticking with our own names for now,” Jack says.

They leave the accounting firm’s office, and head towards Bitty’s car—a new Subaru he bought last year. They climb in, and Bitty cranks the heater up as soon as he starts the ignition.

“Wait, if I decide to change my name to Bittle, will your mom let me give Thirdy that pie recipe?”

“No. Mr. _Zimmermann_ doesn’t sound as good as Mr. _Bittle_. What would I call you when you refuse to take a nap, or chirp me within an inch of my life?”

“This is true,” Jack acknowledges, “Your comebacks would be much weaker.”

“Mr. _Zimmermann_ ,” Bittle says, rolling his eyes, but he leans across the center console and pulls Jack into a kiss anyway.

And they probably shouldn’t make out in the front seat of the car. They’re not newlyweds anymore. They’ve been married eight months. That’s closer to a year than not.

But they’ve been married for eight months. They’ve been out for almost two years. They’ve been together for over five. They just filed joint taxes together.

Hell yes they can make out in the front seat of their car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised "angst with a happy ending," didn't I?
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading and commenting! :)


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